


One Thousand Words, More or Less...

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Gen, Knifeplay, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Necromancy, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Whipping, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 23,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: I often have ideas for stories that just don't want or need to be substantial.  So I thought...I'd post them on this as and when they spark my interest.  They might be gen, slash, fluffy, romantic, tragic, kinky - whatever comes, as it were.  My only limitation is that they will be one thousand words - more or less.





	1. Garrosh/Varian Wrynn - Dagger's Edge

Garrosh ran the honing stone along the dagger’s blade.  It was already very sharp, but it was relaxing, and it gave him time to think.

_What to do with him?  Geld him?  Cut out his tongue – that has a certain appeal…  Slice the tendons at the back of his knees and watch him crawl around like a worm…_

So many choices.  _Or do them all, that works too._

Varian fought the ropes holding him in place and he hadn’t stopped snarling, spitting and threatening since he’d woken.  Finding himself naked and spreadeagled with his hands and feet wide apart and tied to posts hadn’t improved his mood.  If he was afraid, it didn’t show in the rage-reddened cheeks or the way his head lashed about, black hair loose and swirling over his shoulders.

For a human, he was a handsome creature.  Well-built, solid of muscle and bone, unafraid and totally committed to the welfare of his people.  An Orc could understand and appreciate all of those character traits.  But controlling him, that had its appeal.  _I could kill him and he’d be dead and his people would mourn and move on.  But holding him, hurting him, watching him writhe and cry out and maybe even beg…that would be…_

_Glorious._

Garrosh sent the guards away and rose, walking forward to stand at arm’s length from the King, who slowed his struggling, eyes narrowing into a glare.  “Let me out of this, orc, and give me a sword.  I’ll slice you open like a squealing hog.”

The Warchief didn’t respond, he didn’t have to.  He reached out and laid one hand on the man’s chest above the heart, fingers exploring the flesh there.  Good hard muscle, warm skin that sank a little beneath his fingers, warm and damp with sweat.  Varian was scarred, as would any warrior of his experience be scarred.  “No,” Garrosh said in a thoughtful drawl, “I think I’ll just cut you.”

He placed the tip of the dagger against the skin next to his hand and Varian twitched.  “I’d stay still if I were you.  If you move too much this blade could go deep.”  He waited, surprised by his own patience, until Varian’s only movement was the deep movement of his chest with each breath.  Then he pushed the blade in along its full length, just far enough to pierce the upper layers of skin.  Varian hissed, cursing him but Garrosh ignored it, sliding the dagger down his chest, past the nipple and beneath the bulge of chest muscle.  Blood slid along the steel, turning it red and running downwards across his lower chest and stomach.

Varian shivered and Garrosh glanced up to see his rigidly controlled features, eyes narrowed and bloodshot, and staring at him.  The Warchief wasn’t that familiar with human expressions but he thought the man was more settled than he had been, as if the cut had centred his attention.  With a slight turn of his wrist he lifted the blade and placed it on the opposite point of the man’s chest, slicing down again and he wondered what it felt like, that slow, gliding, sharp pain moving one point to another. 

He had the urge to taste human blood and he bent his head and ran his tongue along the first cut.  Orc tongues were rough and the wound, that had been closing, opened again and he smeared the coppery red fluid up and over Varian’s nipple.  He bit down on it, making the man hiss and pulled back, licking his lips, running his tongue over his tusks until they were coated with blood.  He slid the dagger back up over Varian’s shoulder, slowly moving it down the arm, fascinated at the scarlet patterns that slid down his arm to drip down to the floor.

Garrosh heard Varian give a smothered gasp as his hand settled on the man’s thigh.  He lifted the dagger and placed it on the skin above the man’s groin, only a hand’s distance from the genitals.  Surprisingly, they stirred at his touch and he looked up, smiling crookedly.

“I gave some thought to gelding you, King.  Just to make sure you sire no more offspring.  What would you kingdom think of you then, returned to them somewhat less than a man?”  He edged the sharp point close to the hanging testicles and Varian snarled through gritted teeth.

“We cut our wolves sometimes, to calm the more troublesome.  Just a little knick here,” he said softly, point resting at the base of one large ball, “and you’d be the same.  Perhaps you could become a priest like your son.  He probably doesn’t  need balls to pray.”

He grinned at the enraged snarl and slid the blade across the big thigh muscle, moving it slowly, creating patterns of blood that slid down one leg, and then over to the other.  “I can do anything to you, King.  Anything I wish.  Cut you, unmake you, take an eye, a tongue, your cock, slice you up a piece at a time and send the bits back home to your people.”  His other hand roamed over the taught stomach, smearing the blood from one side to the other.  “Anything I want.  But the question is, King…what do YOU want?  Do you want me to stop cutting you?  Just beg me, Varian Wrynn.  Beg me to stop and I will…maybe…”  His free hand slid down to take Varian’s cock and lift it, scraping the under surface with his nails, making small, bleeding holes in the tender skin.  “And maybe I won’t.   but I’d like to hear you beg.”

But he was hard and the moisture on that cock wasn’t blood.  Surprisingly not.

“Don’t…”  The voice was a low, sharp hiss, almost as sharp as his dagger.  He glanced up as he played the edge across Varian’s ribs, feeling each small bump, digging in a little to tag the bone. 

“Don’t what?  Don’t hurt you?  Don’t cut any deeper?”

“Don’t…stop….”


	2. Medivh/Gul'dan - An Unfortunate Oversight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Medivh decides to create a child, he goes to a rather unusual person for help.

The Orc warlock was alone in his tent when the shadowy figure appeared before him. 

He knew instantly who it was, and his eyes narrowed.  “You!   I thought you dead.”

“Almost.”  The voice was soft and oddly distorted and Gul’dan moved closer, trying to see past the distortion.  

“What do you want?”

“You.  You’ll be coming with me.”

Gul’dan snorted and stepped back.  “I think not.  I can sense you are no longer Fel-infused, nor do you have a demon within you.”  He began to smile as he raised his hands.  “Though I can perhaps change one of those flaws…”

Before Gul’dan could attack arcane power whirled around him, wrapping him in an unbreakable hold.  He tried to yell for help but it sucked the breath from his throat and then the world shifted as he was taken.  Reality reformed in another place and he fell to the floor, coughing as the hold was released.

Gasping, Gul’dan stood and looked quickly about.  It was a room, the walls covered by bookshelves loaded with tomes.  He turned back towards Medivh and froze.

Because it WAS Medivh.  And yet it wasn’t.

Wrapped in a dark blue robe, the black, silver streaked hair falling over the shoulders that were caped in black feathers, a woman looked at him with familiar yet subtly altered features.  Her eyes were green, but a natural green tinged with blue and the face was pale with high cheekbones taut under skin stretched by stress. 

“What…?” 

“I brought you here to talk.  But I’m guessing you’re wondering about my altered form?”

Gul’dan’s eyes narrowed.  “I have more important matters to concern me than your peculiar perversions.”

Medivh’s lips quirked up and she stepped closer, raising a hand towards his face.  He flinched and she slowed but the hand touched him gently, fingers stroking over scarred cheeks and large tusks.  “Perversion?  A good enough description, I suppose.  I require something of you.”

“Whatever it is, do not bother.  I will do nothing for you, other than to take your life.”

“Life, as it happens, is what I’m after.”  Medivh continued to touch him and despite himself, Gul’dan was mesmerised by the restful nature of it.  No one touched him gently.  The human walked around him, trailing fingers over his skin.  “This world needs a new Guardian, and I plan to create one familiar with and able to use and properly control both arcane and fel magic.  For that, I need you.  And this body,” she said, finally arriving at his front and running her hand over her chest, “has been changed to bear such a child.  Made from me…”,she said, smiling, reaching out again to lay a hand on his stomach, “..and from you.”

The white hand slid lower, over Gul’dan’s chest, fingers sliding inside the robe to touch the warm skin beneath.  “Do they touch you like this, your Legion masters?”  She moved closer, her other hand sliding down to release the ties of his robe and he grunted as fingers slide inside his leggings.

“What are you doing?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” she said, voice hoarse and soft as her fingers slid down to his groin.

“If you think to seduce me…”

“I do, in fact.  I’m willing to give myself to you, to lie with you, to give you passion and intimacy and pleasure, the kind of joining you would never have from the Legion.”

Gul’dan felt the arcane pressure vanish, realised he was free and for a moment he froze, not sure what to do.  He could smash that fragile skull, squeeze the thin neck..but then the hand that was giving him such pleasure would still and the body that was pressed against him would fall.  There were many possibilities.  This was the greatest mage on Azeroth, and if he mated with Medivh in this form, the result….

He bent and tore the robe away from Medivh’s body, lifting her up to his chest.  “Did you consider,” Gul’dan said, surprisingly gently, “that I might take you, and then kill you?  That is, after all, closer to my nature.”

“I have.  It is a risk.  But you would be the sire of something special.  Avarice was always your strongest passion. “ Medivh spread herself open as Gul’dan bent to lick her breasts and stroke the flat stomach.  His erection slid into her and she choked of a brief cry of pain as he surged into her body.  It had been a long time since Gul’dan had enjoyed such pleasure and he thrust into the mage’s body, hissing as his cock filled her.  He felt the arcane power twining with his fel power, ensuring that the seed he would spill into her would create a new life.  He bent to lick the damp throat, sliding his tongue down to one full breast.  “My son will suckle on this breast,” he murmured, teeth working gently at the nub of nipple, tongue sliding over the full breast.

She moved around him, strong legs wrapping about his hips.  “Our son will.  If he survives.”  Her voice became unsteady, her breathing harsh as she rode him.  Gul’dan sank to the ground and she slid down with him, thighs spreading across his, rising and falling as he thrust.  Dark hair flowed over her should, power sparked around them both as their mutual pleasure rose.  She made a keening cry and arched backwards as her own orgasm made her clench around him, and he growled, gave one final thrust and came deep in her, his seed flowing into her womb. 

Gul’dan lowered her to the ground and crouched over her, fingers stroking the damp place between her thighs.  He bent to lick it, smelling himself on her.  “I do not think….”

And with a gesture and a flash of arcane power, Gul’dan was dead.

Medivh sighed as she dressed and stood, staring at his body.  “Very true.  You forgot that one’s cock often turns off one’s brain.  An unfortunate oversight.” 


	3. Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn - Broken Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: violence/torture

 

Suspended above the ground by a rope tied around his wrists, Varian Wrynn hung in helpless frustration.

He was unable to grasp the rope, so he couldn’t pull himself up.His full weight hung on his arms and the joints ached from it.He wasn’t a small man and each movement sent pain sparking along his arms.He scrabbled at the ground, seeking purchase, a way to lessen the pressure.Just when he thought he had, his feet were kicked out from under him and he swung sharply forward.

“Fucking bastard!”

That earned him another kick, which made him swing even further and he bit back a shout of pain as one of the big muscles in his back was wrenched.

Breath whispered through the hair near his left ear.“Curse me again, so I can kick you again.Maybe you’ll pop a shoulder joint.That would hurt.”

He opened his mouth to swear, then thought better of it, and his torturer chuckled.“Smart wolf.You learn fast.”

Big hands worked at the ties and buckles of his chestplate and it slid off, hitting the ground at his feet.His shoulder guards followed.One after the other he was stripped of his armour until he wore only the padded leather gambeson he wore beneath them.Each piece lessened the weight, each loss was like a small diminishment of his strength and he ground his teeth, swallowing another curse.

The hands slid around in front of him, fingers taking either side of his chest leathers.They paused, and then jerked part, tearing the shirt open.It hung over his shoulders and the fingers returned to touch his skin.He tried to pull away from it but that only brought him into closer contact.The hands slid down, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his pants and slowly pulled the snaps apart and edged the pants down over his hips.They slid down to drape around his ankles and he was then, apart from his boots, entirely naked.

The cool air stirred the hairs on his body erect, goosebumps rippling across his skin.Varian had never been uncomfortable with nudity. This wasn’t discomfort, it was a sense of exposure.It was as unfamiliar a feeling as it was disturbing. There were no more layers between him and his captor.

Suddenly, the light vanished as a cloth was wrapped around his head and over his eyes.Blindfolded, he realised, and he swung his head wildly, trying to dislodge it, growling in anger.The hated voice chuckled.“Frightened, King?The mighty High King of the Alliance, subdued and fearful in the dark?What would your people think?”

Heat seared his skin.Something hard and shockingly hot pressed into him on his right hip.The shock of it made him shout in pain and he tried to dislodge it, moving sideways, only to find himself held in place.It seemed to last an age as he arched backwards but it might have only been moments between the first touch and the lingering smell of burning skin.His burning skin…

The guttural voice pierced the hissing in his head.“That’s a brand, in case you wondered.My brand.Only way to get rid of it is to cut it out.” Blunt fingers caressed the swollen skin, making him hiss.“Still always be there though.You’d feel it.Like I want you to.”

Garrosh – it had to be the Orc Warchief, no other voice could sound quite the same – stepped back and Varian heard the whistle of the lash just as it hit his back.He had no time to tense, to grab for control – he automatically bucked against the strike, an unstoppable gasp shocked from his chest.The sound came again, the sharp *crack*, the even more sharp sense of the leather hitting him.His jaws clenched as he determined not to cry out again.But Hellscream had a viscous arm and the lashes weren’t light.Within half a dozen strikes he was bleeding; he could feel the wet warmth seeping down his skin onto his buttocks, and thighs, gradually cooling as it slid lower.

The pressure on his shoulders and arms increased as he moved against the blows.Something hard slammed into his wrist – perhaps the butt of the whip - and he felt the snap of a breaking bone.

He bit his lip so hard he made it bleed, and tasted the coppery blood.“Why…are you doing…this?”

“Because I can.To hurt you, to hurt all of your people when I send you back to them broken.”A hot hand stroked his scoured back.“Because I enjoy it.”

“I don’t break – so easily.”

The hand pressed hard onto the burn of the brand, piercing blistering skin.“That just makes it better.”

Varian didn’t know how long Garrosh lashed him.Long enough to turn his entire back into one red mass of agony.He’d struck at thighs and shoulders, and the tip of the whip had curled around his waist, biting into his stomach and groin.It had come very close to his genitals and he’d braced himself to be unmanned, but it hadn’t happened.By the end of it he was hanging limply, hardly feeling the grating wrist, his head slumped forward as dizziness rolled over him.He thought he might pass out but somehow he didn’t.Whether that was good or bad he wasn’t sure.

He was barely aware of the hands that untied him and he slid to his knees, all strength gone from his legs.His body folded in on itself; he tried to straighten but a booted foot pressed against his back and red agony flared through him and he groaned at the unanticipated pain.

“Sing for me, King,” the hated voice said as the boot pushed him down to the floor.And in time he did, splayed out on his stomach, giving voice to the agony as Garrosh hummed in a counterpoint of pleasure to the sounds he made.

 


	4. Anduin Lothar/Khadgar - The Crusader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU set during the Crusades.
> 
> I broke my rule on this one, its slightly more than 1,000 words, but I just couldn't trim it down any further (:

Sir Anduin Lothar pulled the floppy felt hat from his head and wiped his face and neck with an old piece of cloth.  The hat had been a gift from his village priest, who'd gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and had assured his Lord that the time would come when he'd welcome having that old hat.  As a Knight and landed Baron, Anduin hadn't seen any likelihood of him wearing something so disreputable, but Father Michael had been correct: he'd long since discarded the metal helmet with its feathered plume in favour of the old hat that kept the sun from his face and neck. 

Anduin ran his fingers through the damp shoulder-length fall of his hair and considered having another drink, then decided against it.  It could be hours before he came to another village with an untainted well and his two bottles had to last him.  Conservation of water had become as second-nature to him as clipping on his father's sword. 

He pulled out a scrolled map and unrolled it.  It was easy to become lost in the vast mostly unpopulated spaces of this foreign land where the people rarely spoke a language other than their own and most hands were raised against those they saw as invaders.  As a member of the Order of the Knights Templar Sir Anduin was dedicated to his faith as much as to his honour.  Yet even a cross on a surcoat was no guarantee of honour.  He had witnessed knights do terrible things and claim sanctity afterwards.  While his true faith was unshaken, his faith in his fellow man was badly dented. 

In the wastelands of Palestine sound carried further than in the fields of Kent.  As he paused to confirm his position he heard an odd noise and he turned his head to listen.  After a moment it was repeated and he recognised it - it was the sound of a horse in distress.  A horse meant a rider.  Tucking his map away, he loosened his short sword in its scabbard and turned Vaillant's head towards the sound. 

He rode around a pile of sun bleached stone and pulled up.  The track that passed for a road in that wilderness wound around the edge of a treeless hill and dipped into a wadi - and lying in the bottom of the dry wadi was a horse, and beneath the horse was a man.  A Saracen. 

The horse had obviously been put to jump the wadi and had fallen.  At least one leg was broken but the poor beast - a fine black Arab mare - was moaning and trying to stand.  The figure trapped beneath the horse was lying still, dead or unconscious, Anduin couldn't tell. 

He was never sure what it was that made him stop and dismount.  The man was likely dead and, even were he alive, his enemy still.  Be that so, he was a Knight of the Lord and could pass neither a man nor beast in distress and do nothing.  He dismounted and dropped Vaillant's reins and the big horse stood patient as it had been trained to do when ground-reined.  Anduin moved cautiously down into wadi, sliding over the loose stone rubble and stopped beside the injured mare.  Its right foreleg was clearly broken and the animal's eyes were white-rimmed with pain and fear.  He slid the long Florentine dagger from its hilt on his belt, stroked the black head to calm her, then quickly slashed the horse's throat. 

The horse convulsed and as she twisted in her death throes Anduin grabbed her rider and pulled him back away from the thrashing animal.  Blood fountained out from the horses' throat, she cried out once and fell.  She was dying even as Anduin realised that the man he'd rescued was still alive. 

The Knight hunched down next to the Saracen and studied him.  His robes were silk and fine linen, and gold tassels decorated the outer white robe and were wrapped around the white kaffiyeh on his head.  Anduin carefully lifted the robe and unclipped the gold and silver scimitar attached to the man's belt sash.  This was no common Saracen but a man of some wealth and position.  There were various bruises and scratched on his face but it was difficult to tell if he had been mortally damaged by being crushed under his horse as it fell. 

Anduin collected one of his precious water bottles, wet his face cloth and wiped the wet fabric across the man's lips.  As he did he studied the features; he was a young, barely of an age to grow a beard and his face was strangely appealing.  When, after a few minutes, the eyelids fluttered open, he saw the eyes were large and brown.  Those stunning  eyes focused on him at last and widened a little.  When the Saracen tried to move Anduin held him down with one hand. 

"Rest, sir infidel.  You took a bad fall. Do you understand me?" 

Those soft eyes watched him carefully, then the Saracen nodded slowly.  When he spoke his voice was almost totally without Moorish accent, and he spoke in fluid French.  "Yes, I understand you."  He turned his head slowly to one side and Anduin watched him testing and flexing each part of his body.  When he caught sight of the dead mare he stiffened and sucked in a deep breath. 

"Ah, poor Miriam.  My fault."  He turned his head back and carefully sat up with his back against the side of wadi.  He wiped one hand across his face and accepted the bottle of water from Anduin, taking small sips and returning it after wiping the lip with the hem of his robe.  "Thank you.  You are a most unusual Frank." 

It was a fine voice, soft and rich, and Anduin found himself almost mesmerised by it.  "Not a Frank, I'm from England." 

"Ah, the pale cold land where it is so cold that water goes hard in a river.  I have heard of it."  He closed his eyes and sighed. "I have such a headache." 

"You hit your head.  Can you stand?" 

After a moment the Saracen nodded and slowly pulled himself to his feet.  He wavered a little and Anduin instinctively put a supportive hand under one elbow.  The man was shorter than himself but he moved with a surprising grace.  He helped the younger man up onto level ground and then stood undecided.  What now? 

"My name," the Saracen said at last, in a quiet, placid tone, "is Khad el Gar, and I am in your debt.  I would doubtless have died there had you not come to my aid, blessings upon you." 

Anduin conveyed the Saracen to a path leading into a small village and left him there.  The young infidel waved him a salute as he rode away and the Knight sighed as he continued on his journey.  Something about the man was special, and he only wished they could have met in another place and time…

 


	5. Rommath - Rommath's Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enigmatic Rommath is revealed to be something not quite what everyone believed.

The concentrated magical attack against Silvermoon City’s protection by the Burning Legion had quite a few unexpected results. The greater protective spells held, barely, but peripheral and personal magics failed. Many of the special personal touches within the city failed, the hovering fountains and floating platforms fell – and Rommath’s secret was revealed.

For the first time, in the wake of that attack, everyone could see his wings.

Lor’themar’s first thought was: no wonder he was so often in such a bad mood. Imagine having a part of you that looked liked that and that you had to hide from the world.

The wings were huge. More than double Rommath’s height, the individual pinions were as wide a child's arm and the trailing ends dragged on the floor. The glamour that had kept them from sight had been reinforced by a binding spell that had kept them wrapped against his body. The screams when they'd been released had been awful, and even those who didn't particularly care for the man had been affected.

The sight of Rommath, crouched on the floor in a corner of the main hall, his shredded robes clutched about him, the great black wings shivering in the air above his head, realigned Lor’themar’s perceptions in more ways than one.

He had always loved to fly, and could only dream of what it felt like to have wings. _So Rommath, of all people, has wings. Life can occasionally be unfair_.

 

Rommath was thinking much the same thing, in between the waves of pain that blotted out thought. For years he had lived with what he'd called 'his condition'. Then, at a time when he needed to be strong in face of the Legion’s assaults, he had become anything but. He wasn't sure how long he sat huddled in the corner fighting the pain, but after an infinite number of moments he felt a hand touch lightly on his head, and looked up into the Regent Lord’s concerned features.

"Regent Lord…you see," Rommath gasped, twitching, "there is something I hadn't…told you..about myself. You may have noticed I am not…what you believed me…to be."

"I always knew you were special, Rommath."

Rommath gave a brief, weary puff of laughter. "Yes, but not quite this special, I imagine."

"No," Lor’themar said, crouching beside him, beneath the sweep of his wings, "not quite. Are you in great pain?"

Rommath sucked in a breath through his nose as he nodded. "But..it will pass. Cramping. Been a long time."

Lor’themar rested a hand on Rommath’s arm and waited until the Grand Magister’s breathing eased and his body stopped twitching. "Do you think you can stand now?"

"Oh yes. Whether I can stop falling over again, that is another thing altogether."

He looked about blearily as, with the Regent Lord’s steadying hand, he slowly stood. The Hall had been emptied of all but a few, who were watching from a safe distance. He hadn't heard the others leave, but was thankful for it. Bad enough for his secret to be revealed in front of the whole world, worse for them to see him unbalanced and wretched.

With the Regent Lord’s help, Rommath stumbled to one of the benches and sat – then almost fell forward as his wings buffeted against the wall. It was so long, such a long time since they'd been free, he'd forgotten everything he'd learned as a child. Gingerly, biting his lip against the expected pain, Rommath drew his wings in against his back. The shoulder joints creaked, shooting sharp pains down his back and sides, but at least they moved.

He looked up to see Lor’themar looking up at the wings. The Regent Lord reached out a hand to touch the nearest leading edge, then hesitated. "They're…glorious. May I..?"

Rommath nodded, mind- numb and weary. "Certainly. But glorious? No. My personal curse."

Gentle fingers ran along the coverts and down to the leading primary feathers. Rommath felt it as a slight pressure and he recognised that feeling had begun to return to the living tissue of the wing bones and joints. He turned as the Regent Lord sat beside him, and watched Lor’themar shake his head, showing the sort of expression that Rommath, from experience, recognized as growing concern.

"Rommath – what are you?"

"An oddity. A freak. The result of a magical accident as a child, for which I may thank my parent. Though thanking was something I never managed to do. “Apparently, I am classified as a Sylph, if only in makeup.”

"A Sylph! I understood them to be gone, dead or vanished into hiding, and there were never many of them. How did your father.." Lor’themar stopped, and flushed. "But I shouldn't pry."

"Oh please, prying is your stock-in-trade!" Rommath straightened, trying to ease the pressure of cramped back muscles. "My father taught me to hide my state, for rather obvious reasons. Hiding things has since become second nature to me." Rommath's head drooped as energy ran from him like blood from a dozen wounds. "Regent Lord – I find myself – quite weary. May I retire to my rooms?"

Lor’themar stood, and tried to assist him, but Rommath shrugged the supporting hand away. "A healer first, I think. No –" Lor’themar said, tone hardening as he raised a hand to counter Rommath’s automatic disagreement. "You have experienced severe physical stress. Medical attention first, then rest and then – " The bottomless, unreadable eyes scrutinized Rommath’s face, "- we will need to talk further. Others will hear of this, Rommath. Things have changed, in more ways than one."


	6. You Don't Give Me Fireworks - the author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know, its not a thousand words, but I thought I'd share some humour and give you the lols (:

**YOU DON'T GIVE ME FIREWORKS ANYMORE**

 

You don’t give me fireworks  
You don't share your Blingtrons  
You hardly talk to me anymore  
When you Charge through the door and pretend you’re melee.

I remember when  
You couldn't wait to buff me  
Used to hate to cleave me.  
Now after raiding all through the night  
When it's good for you  
And you're feeling alright  
Well, you just roll Need  
And you grief through the fight.  


You don't give me fireworks anymore  
  
It used to be the done thing  
To ask the druid for rezzing -  
But 'used to be's' don't count anymore  
I just lay on the floor  
'Til they sweep me away  
  
RL, I remember  
All the things you taught me  
All the things you bought me  
I learned how to dodge  
And I learned how to fly  
Well I learned how to shield  
Even learned how to die   
You'd think I could learn  
How to spit in your eye

'Cause you don’t give me fireworks  
Anymore  
  
Well, you'd think I could learn  
How to spit in your eye  
'Cause you don’t give me fireworks  
Anymore

 


	7. Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn - Dealing with Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little game of strip poker in Pandaria.

Heavy rain battered against the windows, driven by a wind that made flying nearly impossible.  It had been that way for almost a week, and a week of inactivity was making Wrathion twitchy.

Inside, the Tavern was warm and comfortable, with good food, good drink and good company.  _But I’d really like to stretch my wings.  Skimming around the tavern just isn’t the same._

His companion was looking equally bored.  Of course, to the rest of the world, Prince Anduin Wrynn would seem merely neutral; he’d been an apt student at controlling outward shows of emotion, if not the emotions themselves.  But Wrathion was very good at reading people, especially this particular human.

Anduin played with the cards listlessly, building small houses out of the loose ones in front of him.  He looked up through blond eyelashes.  “I’m bored.”

Wrathion smiled very slightly.  “So I see.  I’m sorry if my company isn’t entertaining.”

“Oh no, it’s not that.  I just wish we had something else to do. “

“What would you suggest?”

Anduin gave the appearance of contemplating the question though Wrathion knew he’d thought it out already.  “Well, there is this game they play in some parts of Stormwind.  It’s like our usual card game, but with a different set and you actually bet on the outcome.”

Wrathion waved a languid hand.  “Oh, betting.  That’s pedestrian.”

“In this game, you bet with clothing.”

“Clothing?” Wrathion stroked the sleeve of his jacket.  “Explain.”

“It’s simple.  The loser of a hand removes a piece of their clothing.”

Amusement bubbled through Wrathion’s brain and his lips curled up into a genuine smile.  “So let me see if I understand it – each player takes off clothing as they lose?  Until, what..they are naked?”

“Something like that.”

“Exactly like that, from the sound of it.  Seems rather childish to me.”

Anduin sighed and sat back, looking deflated.  “It’s the challenge of it, I guess.  But  if you’d rather not chance it, I’ll understand.”

It was such a transparent ploy, Wrathion couldn’t resist responding.  “No, no, Anduin, I’m sure it would be, ah, fun.  But we don’t have the right deck, do we?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” the Prince said, dragging a box out of his coat pocket, “I just happen to have a pack with me.”

“How providential.  Please explain the rules.”

They were simple, and based almost entirely on luck.  They agreed to whatever variants they wanted on the rules and then Anduin dealt the first hand.  Which he lost.

The Prince removed his sash and laid it on an empty chair.  Wrathion dealt and, despite having a decent starting hand he was unable to capitalise on it, and Anduin didn’t fall for his bluff.  He removed his own sash and placed it next to Anduin’s.

Things started to get interesting after that.  Wrathion won a few hands, but Anduin started creeping ahead.  He seemed to know when to fold on a hand and when to challenge, and after three straight losses, which had Wrathion down to wearing only his trousers, underwear and turban, he came to the startling conclusion that, somehow, the Prince of Stormwind was cheating.

Which immediately pleased him.  It had been difficult to teach Anduin the benefits of cheating.  The boy had been scandalized at the idea, having been spoon-fed twaddle from birth about honour and courage and Doing the Right Thing.  _He seems to have struck on a situation where cheating is acceptable.  Presumably getting me naked.  I wonder if he has any notions of what to do with me when he does…_

But if Anduin was cheating, that changed the rules of the game.  Wrathion could cheat as well.  He’d noted that being naked from the waist up seemed to have a profound effect on his young human friend.  He deliberately lost the next hand and stood to slowly and gracefully remove his trousers.

Anduin was fixated.  Wrathion turned around to hold the chair while he lifted out one leg, bending over and knowing it presented an excellent view of his ass.  Anduin had been shuffling the cards, and they abruptly flew all over the room.

“Ooops,” Wrathion drawled through hooded eyes.  “You’ve dropped your cards.  Let me help you.”  He bent over, his black spidersilk underpants slid across his buttocks revealing a decent amount of them, and Anduin nearly fell off his chair.

Wrathion won the next hand, and he knew by then that any wins he gained were due to Anduin letting him win.  So it wasn’t surprising that Anduin stripped off his own shirt, not so much gracefully as awkwardly.  _Getting a little excited are we, my Prince?_ He’d worked out that the cheating was due to some form of markings on the back of the cards that informed Anduin what cards he, Wrathion, had.  He proved it by covering the cards and saw a flash of frustration in those open blue eyes.

_My clever little human.  Who would have thought you could be quite so subtly deceptive…_

Wrathion drew out the game, winning some hands and losing others but eventually he was left wearing a sock when Anduin removed his last item of clothing.  He put his cards down on the table and smiled.  “So, I win.  What do I receive for my victory?”

Anduin, he noted, could blush over most of his body; his pale skin made his discomfit obvious, almost everywhere.  “We didn’t actually decide on a prize.”

“No, we did not.”  He stood and walked calmly around the table, unconcerned at his own nudity but very much aware that Anduin was watching him with widening eyes.  “If I were to choose one of the cards in the deck to keep, it would be the Gold Prince.  So, stand up, Anduin, let me see my prize.”

“You can’t just HAVE me, Wrathion!”  But still he stood, his hand hovering over his groin.  “I’m not a playing card!”

“No, you lost the last hand, so let me play one more hand here…” he said, sliding his right hand over Anduin’s back, “and another hand here,” he finished, pulling Anduin’s back to his chest and sliding his left hand down over the Prince’s stomach.  He leaned closer and rested his chin on Anduin’s shoulder as his hand slid lower, eliciting a gasp of pleasure.  “Life is a game, Anduin and it’s one I always play to win.”

 


	8. Khadgar & Medivh/The Guardian's Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian takes an apprentice - my own small take on how that might have happened, intermingled with movie Khadgar and Medivh.

Journal of the Guardian – Day 2850

I’d never expected, or asked for, an apprentice.  In fact, on the rare occasions when the Kirin Tor had suggested it I’d refused.  I didn’t feel capable of teaching anyone when I still had so much to learn myself.  Eventually they circumvented my refusals by not evening bothering to ask me.  One day he simply turned up at my door, ruffled and untidy, clutching his pack of worldly goods in nervous hands and I looked down into those wide, anxious eyes and hadn’t been able to send him away.

Moroes is pleased.  Though he’d never say so, I suspect he feels my self-imposed isolation is dangerous.  Perhaps it is.  I am dealing with forces that I know, in moments of true honesty, are possibly beyond me.  Of course, that just increases the challenge.  Yet still I have those dreams – dark dreams about something horrible growing inside me, clawing its way out, tearing through my middle and up through my mouth and as I convulse in agony – I wake up.  Variants of that dark dream have come to me many times over the last few years.  I realise one should not read any particular meaning into such things; they are often the mind’s way of rationalising things it cannot interpret.  Yet sometimes it feels horribly, terribly real.

Khadgar is his name.  Sixteen years old, marked by the Kirin Tor to be my potential replacement.  That annoyed me, when I read the note he carried.  A replacement.  As if I were an old pair of shoes to be tossed away.  I’d considered refusal then; something inside me whispered _send him away, you need no understudy._   But I knew they’d just keep sending people until I agreed.  After all, I’d fulfilled the very same role myself.  So in the end I agreed and he stayed. 

 Journal of the Guardian – Day 3200

Khadgar let is very casually drop in conversation this morning that it was his birth anniversary.  I have no idea what day my Birthing Day is, I’ve long since forgotten it and there is no one around who can remind me.  But Khadgar seemed pleased at my somewhat distracted well wishes and Moroes made him a traditional Birthing Day iced breadstick to break with him.  I let him pick a book from the general stack to keep as a gift and he naturally chose something on magical history.  The boy reads so much, it’s a wonder his eyes haven’t worn out of their sockets.  He certainly loves books. 

The dreams are getting worse.  They faded for a while after Khadgar joined me but they came back gradually over the last couple of months and now hardly a night goes by that I don’t have them.  Sometimes I don’t remember them, though I know when I wake that I’ve had them.  They make me strangely weary, as if I’d physically gone somewhere.  I’m starting to think I might be sleepwalking though Moroes has never mentioned me doing so.  Or perhaps, since I’m a mage, its sleep-teleporting for all I know.  But I found dried mud on my shoes one morning.  And I don’t recall going out during the night.

Journal of the Guardian – Day 3455

Lothar came to visit today.  It’s been years since we’d last talked; I hadn’t stayed away from Stormwind deliberately but I’d had so much to do and the time just got away from me.  I’d receive his letters, put them aside to answer them and then something would come up to interrupt me and I just seemed to forget about them.  When I did think back on one of them I couldn’t find it.  Now and then I had the vague memory of scrolls being tossed into the fire.  I cannot tell now whether these are real memories or dreams.  Or even what the scrolls were.

He invited me to Stormwind to participate in a discussion about reports of attacks on outlying villages.  The invitation was politely made but it was backed up by Llane’s ring.  No one can order me to do anything specifically in order to maintain my neutrality,  but I live within the borders of lands under the control of the King of Stormwind, and courtesy alone demands I attend him if requested.   So I did, and took Khadgar along with me.  The boy had been too long inured in Karazhan with only Moroes and myself for company, and he was obviously pleased to be visiting Stormwind.  Even if he seemed to find Lothar overbearing.  Well, he can be, but he’s a good friend.

We went to investigate an attack and came upon the remains a group of dead alongside a ruined wagon.  The signs shook me at some level – it was Fel, I could tell that – but to find Fel here, on Azeroth, triggered something inside me.  The sense of that power, that terrible, evil energy, held me frozen as if by an invisible hand.  It was as if I knew it would happen, knew it would be there and that was impossible.  How could I know it?  Yet I recognised it.  How could I not – I’d been research Fel for some years.  The Guardian should be aware of all potential threats to Azeroth, and Fel certainly qualified.

I did not mention my previous investigations, nor my experiments in its use.  I’d been certain of my ability to control it, to not be corrupted by it.  I was the Guardian, I was strong and I would master it.  And in any event, there was no one who could help me.  I could not go to the Kirin Tor and there is no mage in Azeroth who could do any more.  I must carry on alone.  I will be fine.  I will…

Journal of the Guardian –  entry by Khadgar

I found the Guardian’s journal today, after the death of King Wrynn and the events that followed.  That Lothar and I managed to stop Medivh and somehow survived is still something I find it hard to comes to terms with.

The King is buried and is being mourned.  I returned to Karazhan to carry out my last duty to the Guardian.  I managed to retrieve his body from beneath to golem and burned it, along with Moroes, out on the forecourt.  It was a sorrowful duty and I did it alone because there was no one who would understand my grief, or my pain.  I had been forced to kill a man I respected, a man I loved.  I held his hand and watched the life fade from his eyes.  He didn’t blame me or curse me or reproach me.  I think, in his last moments, he recognised what he’d done, how he’d betrayed everything he’d spent his life protecting, how he’d betrayed the King and Lothar…and me.  And although it wasn’t something he’d ever have done if he’d been in his right mind, when he was finally alone with his thought, he was able to recognise how completely he’d failed.  Hubris had destroyed him and all his life’s work as thoroughly as any demon.

They offered me the position I’d wanted all my life.  I turned them down.  I never want to have that kind of responsibility.  Well, never is a long time and I’m not the sort of person to believe in absolutes.  I won’t deny I was tempted but it was the temptation of power that killed Medivh.  Any power that comes to me will be from my own efforts, cleanly earned, honestly used.

Rest well, last Guardian of Azeroth.  Your legacy is one of sadness but perhaps something good may come of it, in the long run.


	9. Anduin Lothar/Khadgar - The Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, there is an order of Companions who are trained from their early teens to be totally loyal advisors, guardians, protectors, companions and - sometimes but not always - sexual partners of the famous and rich people who can afford to purchase their contracts. In this AU a young trainee Companion meets the Regent-King of Azeroth and dares to dream.
> 
> I did post this some time ago but withdrew it for reasons I cant recall, but decided this set up was ideal to make it available again.
> 
> Note: None of the characters in this story are underage.

He carefully nudged aside the large palm frond and looked out through the greenery at the approaching group. It wasn't easy to see clearly from his vantage but it was impossible to get closer. If his teachers caught him there he would be reprimanded. He was prepared to risk the reprimand, though, even if it meant being put on punishment duties or restricted to his room. It wasn't often he had the chance to see a Regent-King. 

It was difficult to see anything in the mass of people just entering the Solarium. He saw his teachers, old Master Jerobian and Master Hanna Selt, along with a small group of other senior Teachers. There was also Grand Magister Tebault, of course, resplendent in his formal white robes, his long silver white hair bound behind him framing his perfect features. He could see the occasional flash of blue and gold, the uniform of the Stormwind Guard. There were a few courtiers, dressed in their finery and a young woman he assumed to be the Princess Royale, the reason for the visit. As pretty as she was, the Princess interested him very little. The tall figure at the centre of the group was the one he was putting himself into trouble's way to see. 

His courtiers were gowned in bright robes and tunics of satin and silk heavy with gems. The Regent-King was a warrior lord and stood out among the finery like a quiet flame. Tall and powerful, he was dressed that day in blue velvet trimmed with gold, his household colours. A long rich cloak was tossed over one shoulder, secured with a silver cloak pin, gold belt rested around his hips. Long powerful legs were clothed in velvet and leather and the only jewellery he wore was his signet ring and a great sapphire pendant on a gold chain around his neck. It flashed against the black velvet when he moved, a perfect blue fire, and it was called Skyheart, the stone of power.

And then there was the rest of him - Anduin Lothar, Regent-King of Azeroth. A face as familiar as his own, seen on coins, painted and drawn and known throughout the land. In the prime of his life, his rich chocolate brown hair hung over his shoulders, matching the trim brown beard that framed his face. Reported to have astonishing skill with the sword, he was a tactician, a politician, a just and fair ruler. 

The royal party was shown to the viewing area while the Masters signed for the candidates to enter. Music played, food and drink were handed out and the sunlight room was filled with colour and perfume and the soft tread of graceful young women. A Companion was to be chosen by the Princess and the Senior girls were presented to her for her inspection. Khadgar watched the girls move, admired their grace and wished he had more of it. There was lovely Esdelle, presenting the Princess a plate of delicacies, her skin and hair glowing gold in the light, each movement a thing of beauty. Beside her, dark Willette poured wine, her dark skin and hair glowing like satin in the sun. At eighteen, the Princess would be easy to match with one of them and whoever was chosen would provide companionship, protection, guidance and dedication, services that Kirin-Tor had given to the noble houses of Azeroth for centuries. 

After the formal introductions, the girls were allowed to mingle, to give the Princess a chance to meet them, to allow the candidates the same opportunity. A Companion was never forced to accept a contract since such treatment would doom any relationship from the start. Their powers as wielders of the Arcane would tell each of them how suited they were for any prospective new Master. 

While the Princess and her courtiers were busy with the Companion candidates, the Regent-King rose and began to walk about the gardens by himself. As he approached Khadgar's hiding place, the young man ducked backwards, tried to draw himself into the shadows between the plants and the wall. The tall figure stopped near where he crouched, turned and stopped. 

"Hullo in there. Do you have a reason to lurk or are you just curious?" 

It was a fine voice, deep and rich like the velvet he wore and even without the attraction, courtesy alone would have forced Khadgar to respond. 

"I am sorry, sire. I was curious. Please don’t -" 

"I won't tell. Will you be punished if you are caught?" 

"Yes," he whispered, "they'll make me wash dishes for a month!" 

The Regent-King chuckled, turned sideways so that Khadgar was watching the regal profile. "Light forbid! I must admit, I'm curious to see the face of someone who would risk that fate for my sake." He turned his head and Khadgar found himself being sought by eyes as blue as the Skyheart. The Regent-King parted the leaves so that Khadgar was revealed. 

He blushed, feeling suddenly shy. "Majesty." 

They looked at each other in silence, the seventeen year old Companion candidate and the Regent-King. He only wished he had some of the poise and perfect appearance of the girls out in the Solarium, instead of wearing a crumpled tunic, his face doubtless smudged and his hair in disarray. He watched one hand reach out, a strong finger tipped his chin up and then pulled out a leaf that had stuck in his hair. The Regent-King smiled and Khadgar found himself smiling back, transfixed by a sensation his training told him was arousal. 

"What’s your name, young Companion?" 

"Khadgar, Majesty." 

"Khadgar." He repeated it, seeming to savour it so that Khadgar felt his heart thud in the broken rhythm of desire, a desire as futile as it was powerful. 

"Take care, young Khadgar. I doubt you’ll be able to hide forever, as attractive as you are." Then the hand did touch him, ran briefly through his hair before the Regent-King moved away. The leaves reformed their barrier in front of him and Khadgar was alone with his thudding heart and the faint warm sensation of that fleeting touch. 

He managed to escape back to his rooms without being seen and sat on his bed for a time so that he could regain his calm. A Companion was trained to be cool and elegant, restrained and graceful. Since the day he'd been offered to the Kirin-Tor he'd trained and worked for the day when he would take his place as a Companion to some great nobleman, to offer guidance, protection and friendship, a trusted and loyal assistant. 

Companions lived a life of luxury and privilege, were always chosen for their physical qualities, intelligence and Arcane strength. Each had a talent of some sort and they were raised and taught to be everything that their future Masters needed. As children they were given a magical education as well as an artistic one. Once of age, were taught the sexual arts as well, as that was generally - but not always - a part of their future life. Khadgar had accepted his life in the Kirin-Tor with pleasure, knowing he would lead a far better life than the poor, starving farming family he had left behind. He had never questioned his place or his future, till then.

Now I find myself attracted to an untouchable man. You’re such a fool, Khadgar!

He slept poorly that night and woke to the distressingly bright light of a new dawn. After washing and dressing he wandered down for breakfast, though he had little appetite. The other candidate members of his class were just drifting in, their voices and laughter filling the dining hall. His friends welcomed him, and Anya, his closest friend, handed him plate of ripe fruit as he slid onto the bench next to her. 

"Khadgar, did you hear the news?" 

"No, just got here. What news?" he asked as he sprinkled sugar onto the soft fruit and spooned up a mouthful. 

"The Regent-King. He's coming back today to chose a Companion!" 

The fruit turned to tasteless pap in his mouth. "Oh." 

"Oh? Is that all you have to say?" The red-haired girl shook her head. "This is important. The Regent-King has never had a Companion before, he's always rejected any invitations from the Grand Master. Now suddenly he decides to take one." She began to eat her honeyed toast, not seeing the stricken look in her friend's eyes. "I wonder who he'll pick. Jaydeen is gorgeous and almost as tall as the Regent-King, if he likes red heads like me. Then there's Bryce." She sighed. "He's just too gorgeous for words…" 

She reeled off the list of senior male candidates while Khadgar sat trying to eat, trying to appear normal. Trying to remember that it was stupid to be unhappy because even if he had been a Senior Candidate he wouldn't have stood a chance against the finer boys.   
After awhile his friend's cheerful babble became too much and he pushed himself away from the table. "I have to…practise my flute. I will see you all later." 

He went back to his room, gathered his flute and went in search of a quiet place somewhere to play - and to hide. The flute suited his mood. He found a sunny spot on a balcony overlooking the lake, sat up on the cushioned bench with his feet tucked under him and played every sad song he could think of. When he grew tired of that he rested his chin on his hands on the balcony and watched the clouds sail across the sky. Meditation supplied no answer. He wanted the unreachable. He supposed he would get over it in time. 

He had begun to play agains when he a voice spoke, surprising him with its unexpectedness. 

"That's a very sad song, young Khadgar." 

He twisted on the couch, then fell off to his knees when he saw who stood just inside the doorway. 

"Majesty!" 

A strong hand slid under his arm and lifted him to his feet. He looked up, found himself caught and held by a sapphire bright regard. "You don't need to kneel to me. Though I am puzzled. Were you trying to hide from me?" 

It was Khadgar's turn to be puzzled. "Hide? No. I’m sorry, Majesty, I didn’t know you were looking for me." 

He was settled back onto the cushions and the Regent-King sat beside him. It wasn't a large bench so it seemed natural enough for the big man to rest his arm around Khadgar's shoulder. 

"Well I was. I told the Grand Master I was looking for a Companion. He very kindly brought out a whole troop of very attractive young men, but a certain Khadgar wasn't among them. When I asked for you to be brought forward, no-one could find you. I thought perhaps you disliked me, from our first meeting." 

The words penetrated, finally, and he dropped his flute in shocked surprise. "M..me? But. . .but I'm not a senior Candidate. I haven't completed my training, I can't play like Jaydeen or sing like Lethe and I'm nowhere near as brilliant a mage or handsome as. . ." 

"I don't want any of these young men you mention. I want the person I saw looking out at me from among the bushes like some apparition." A warm hand curled around his face, fingers stroking the flushed skin. "You have managed what no brilliant enemy general has ever managed. You managed to capture me. I've been unable to think of anything since our first meeting except how to arrange our second. Will you be my Companion, Khadgar? Will you share your life with me? I am not as fine to look upon as you, but I think perhaps we can do well enough together." 

His heart swelled with pride and delight and he nodded. "Yes. Majesty, I would like that very much." 

"Then, first," he said, smiling, "you’ll remember to call me Lothar, or Anduin if you prefer, when we’re alone, and I will call you Khadgar. Shall we go and tell the Grand Master?" 

He nodded again, wondering if his heart would burst from all the feelings swelling it. As he walked with his new Master towards the Grand Master's suite he wondered what the future held for him but guessed that, whatever his life might be, it would never again be dull.


	10. Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn - Wolfshead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story around the idea that the Horde defeated the Alliance and pretty well destroyed it, leaving only scattered tribes.
> 
> I thought this would make a good longer story but I couldn't come up with a unique slant to the relationship at the time. Seemed a pity to toss it so thought I'd include it here, for the fun of it.

 

Varian Wrynn stood beside the throne in Orgrimmar Hold’s main chamber, staring out across the heads of the orcs gathered there.  He wasn’t watching anything or anyone in particular, just letting his focus drift and his mind wander.  He’d been standing there for some hours, unrestrained by rope or chain, shifting his balance now and then from one foot to the other for comfort.  He stretched his back and moved his arms to keep them limber but with careful movements.   Occasionally he would wipe a hand across his head as a breath of air in the otherwise muggy room stirred across his face.  It felt strange not to feel long hair; Garrosh had decided, for whatever reason, to have it shorn off.  He’d been virtually bald until it had started to regrow and now it was very short, a soft brush on his scalp which was as long as the Warchief allowed it to grow.

His existence was a matter of limitations.  Whatever Garrosh Hellscream ordered for him, that’s what was done.  His fingers idly touched the tattoo on his upper right arm.  It was still slightly tender and a little red and he didn’t need to look at it to know what it was.  A wolf’s head, facing forward, eyes narrowed, with chains from its neck that wrapped around Varian’s arm.  The symbolism was obvious.

And rather clever for an orc.  Not only for his nickname of Logosh, but for his being a wolfshead, an outlaw in that new and shattered world where the Horde ruled and the Alliance was dead years since.  After the Fall, he’d escaped with a few of his people to the wilder lands north of Stormwind.  For years they’d fought simply to survive, attacking Horde outposts for supplies and weapons, but only where the numbers favoured them.  Outlaws they were – outside the law of the Horde, surviving like animals.  Hunted down for sport and the challenge of the kill, with his name on top of the list.

He sighed and tucked his arms behind him, wondering when he’d be fed.  All he’d had to eat that day was a couple of nearly raw rabbits and some bread, and that was in the morning.  The rabbits had been small, obviously the discarded choices from the orc’s firstmeal, and he licked his lips as the smell of roasting pies wafted in from the Hold kitchen.  With the Warchief’s approval he might get a pie.  But thinking of food made his stomach rumble so he put it aside and settled again to wait.

At such times, when he had nothing specific to do, Varian would consider his options.  They were few, and never changed but he couldn’t stop thinking them over.  Normal escape was impossible.  Shortly after his capture the Warchief’s mages has inserted a tiny magical object in his skull.  If he attempted to leave Orgrimmar, the talisman would knock him unconscious.  They'd shown him the effects, had let him run to the gate and he had, indeed, been knocked out.  While he wasn’t completely certain it wasn’t a trick of some sort, it would be difficult to prove.

Loud voices broke into his depressingly circular thoughts and he focused on the big double doors, eyes narrowing.  It sounded like Azeroth’s Lord and Master had returned…

 

Garrosh strode into the Hold’s main chamber, tossing his weapons to his aide as he did.  It had been a good day out, he’d enjoyed getting away from the occasionally tedious work of being Warchief.  Riding across the plains with his personal troop, hunting game and the occasional Alliance tribe was something he enjoyed on a personal level.  They’d caught no Alliance that day but had taken down a kodo bull and it had been handed over to the butchers for treatment.  He was hot, dirty and thirsty and he wiped a hand across his damp face as he automatically looked to where his ‘pet’ stood.

Varian Wrynn was exactly where he’d been ordered to stand when Garrosh had left that morning. The big human male stood with his arms comfortably behind his back, feet apart for easy balance.  Garrosh moved forward and watched the blue eyes studying his approach, neither fearful nor aggressive.  He was learning to read this human; there was no obvious challenge in how he stood but it was there, even so.  This wolf was nowhere near tamed.

He moved in a circle around the man, running his hand over shoulder and back.  The skin was silky soft and warm, much softer than orcish skin, so easily marked by a blade but oddly pleasant to touch.  There was, of course, an extra pleasure in touching it, because it showed his mastery of this human, this strongest male of the breed.  If he was honest, he’d say ownership rather than mastery – the Wolfshead hadn’t bowed an inch to him since his capture weeks before.  He was about as tame as the kodo they’d slaughtered, and just as unpredictable.

He placed one hand on the tattoo on the man’s arm, grasping the hard muscle.  “Have they fed you?”

Varian shook his head.  “Two scrawny rabbits for morning meal, nothing since.”

“Hmmph.”  Garrosh’s grunt was amused.  “Picky wolf.”  His nostrils twitched at the smell of hot pie and he saw Varian lick his lips.  _Ah pies, he does like them._   “Hmm, pie.  I think I’ll have a few of those.”  He turned away then looked back quickly, seeing the glare.  “You need only ask me if you want one.  Nicely ask me.”

There wasn’t an ounce of give in the responding look.  He shrugged and turned away.  “Ah well, so be it.”  He headed at a casual saunter for the door.  “You’d better come with me, in case I change my mind.”  He kept walking and after a few seconds heard the sound of the man moving behind him.  He was quiet, light on his feet, but Garrosh had very good hearing.  And when he gave an order, no matter how lightly it was voiced, Varian had learned to obey him.  Especially when it was in his own best interests.

They moved out of the council chamber and down a corridor to the meal hall.  It was a large comfortable room lit by mage-made wall lanterns that glowed gold and furnished with broad tables and fur-padded benches, with a cookery beyond.  As it was just before the lunch hour the room was half full and food was being served out to the tables.  The Warchief headed for the main table, currently unoccupied, and took his place in the centre.  Varian stood beside him, apparently looking anywhere but at the food piled before him.  Especially not the pies, sitting steaming gently on a platter.

Garrosh scooped up three of them, dumping them onto his plate.  Two were minced meat with a rich spiced sauce, the other a dried fruit and honey, the sweet ones topped with sprinkled sugar.  He picked up one of the meat pies and bit into it, the juices running out down his chin and onto his hands.  “Hmph…de..lish…”  He licked his hands as he continued to eat, tongue lapping up the spilled juice.  He sensed Varian’s movement beside him and looked up at the sound of a rumbling stomach.  Wiping a hand across his mount, he grunted.  “Well?”

Varian sighed, a very frustrated sound.  “Warchief, may I…please…have a  pie?”

Garrosh grinned and pushed one of the meat pies across towards Varian.  “You see, good manners is rewarded.”

Varian grabbed it and shoved it in his mouth as Garrosh picked up another meat pie.  “You’re fighting tonight, so you can have another.”

Varian paused in mid-bite and glanced across at the Warchief, eyebrows up.  Garrosh nodded, breaking one of the sweet pies in two.  “One of Caine’s taurens.  Should be an interesting match.”

 

As he stuffed more pie into his mouth, Varian considered how his life had changed over the weeks.  When he’d first been taken, he’d fought Garrosh constantly and earned many beatings.   He challenged the Warchief’s control as he’d fought every orc all his life, with furious determination.  But in time he realised that it was foolish to keep fighting him.  He got no closer to being free of Garrosh by resistance and, in fact, he damaged his chances because he risked real injury, or being crippled.  His best chance was to stay healthy and to await an opportunity.  And that meant making Garrosh think he was subdued, so he might relax and perhaps make a mistake.  While Varian knew he couldn’t leave Orgrimmar himself, if Garrosh were to take him outside, then the opportunity might arise.

But he missed his people and worried about them.  He’d gathered a small group of survivors together after the Fall; they’d started with two hundred and twenty males, females and young but that number had dropped in the immediate aftermath.  During the final battles the Horde had targeted their healers and mages, leaving the rest vulnerable to mass attacks that could not be targeted from a distance, nor healed through.  Only Anduin had survived and Varian had watched him work himself almost to death trying to save as many as he could.   His heart had almost broken under the pressure.  Varian’s pride in his son’s strength was enormous.

The original two hundred and twenty ended up as eight five.  The very young, sick and the old had perished, and the violence of their lives had taken more.  But they kept on going, eventually managing to find places of limited safety in the deep woods and high mountains.  They adapted.  They survived.  They were not human or dwarf or night elf or draenei – they were a tribe.  And he was their leader.

But without his leadership, he wondered how they’d cope.  He had some able people and they’d planned – or tried to – for all eventualities, including his loss or capture.  His orders were clear – find a new place, somewhere he couldn’t reveal under torture, and take the whole tribe there.  And wait, send out scouts to check on the situation and move only when it was safe.  And under no circumstances try and rescue him, if he was alive and in Horde hands.  Of course, not being there to enforce that one, he wasn’t sure if they’d obey.

 

He’d been taken while out on a scouting trip with three of his tribe.  The other three had died during the ambush, but they’d died well, facing the enemy, weapons in hand.  He’d survived because he’d taken a head blow and woke in Orgrimmar being healed and restrained.

Garrosh hadn’t been deliberately cruel – he’d punished Varian every time he rebelled against the captivity the same way he would any beast he owned.  The big orc seemed fascinated by him and had ensured he got proper care, with cleaning, decent gear and healing when needed.  But it was slavery, even so.  And Varian ached for his freedom, to return to his tribe, especially Anduin. 

Once they’d finished eating, Garrosh headed for the bathing room, taking Varian with him when he’d requested the chance to clean up.  Standing on the tiled floor near the grate, Varian stripped and doused himself with a bucket of hot water, soaped his body then rinsed it again, before climbing into the nearby big tub.  The water was wonderfully hot and he sighed, sinking into it, feeling the heat work its magic on tired muscles.  He leant back against the side and sank down onto the bench that was built around the tub’s inside wall, stretching his legs out and wiping a hand across his face. 

Garrosh had done the same and his entry into the tub sent water spraying everywhere.  He sat opposite Varian and studied him, eyes narrowed in the steamy air.  His expression was oddly intense and for a while Varian wondered at it.   The golden eyes focused on Varian’s chest in a way that wasn’t simply looking but was almost …interested?  And the thought came to him from somewhere…

 _What if he wants me?  What if something about me attracts him?_ It seemed an odd idea – he was human after all, and male, and Garrosh was likewise male and orc.  But still –

And the thought came to him that if it was some kind of attraction, then he could use that attraction.  If he dared.  If he was right, and he dared, he might just be able to seduce the Warchief.

And that wasn’t the disgusting idea it really should have been…

 


	11. Various characters - Red Alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU of the most extreme kind - what might happen if the USS Enterprise turned up around Azeroth, just as the Burning Legion was invading...
> 
> Sillyness broke out.

Whatever force it was that pulled the USS Enterprise into that strange, unfamiliar place had left it damaged but intact, and its engineering department personnel worked with frantic haste to repair her scarred systems.

Spock’s face was intent as he studied the readouts. Patience was something Kirk was learning thought it wasn’t a natural attribute:he knew Spock was working as fast as he could but patience wasn’t something that James Kirk had in abundance.

Finally, his science officer straightened.“Captain, we appear to be lost.”

“Oh, thanks for that.I sort of gathered that.Lost as in, we took the wrong off ramp and ended up in Cleveland, or lost as in, in deep crap?”

“Certainly the latter, in principle.”Spock’s fingers flew over the computer panel and an image appeared on the screen before him.“My spatial navigation systems cannot identify anything in local space, and the planet beneath us is certainly unknown. Whatever that energy vortex was, it appears to have transported us either very far away, or into some alternate dimension.However,”he slid a control forward and the image zoomed in, “this world appears to be under attack.”

That caught his Captain’s attention.“Show me.”

The image of a world appeared in the main viewscreen.An average-sized world, not as large as Earth, with continents and oceans.“Environmentally very similar to Earth standard,” Spock announced, bending back to his scanner, “with an atmosphere slightly richer in oxygen, 1.2G, water oceans of a similar Earth type.Overall a most habitable world, though that eddy in the centre of the oceans between the larger land masses is rather atypical.”

“What is that?” Kirk asked, eyes narrowing.“Some sort of cyclonic feature?”

“Apparently. I cannot recall seeing such an environmental feature that large, and seems to be stationary.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Very. But it seems to be a natural phenomenon, not something caused by these…” he said, focusing the ship’s sensors.The view zoomed in to a group of islands in the north eastern quadrant of the central ocean.

There were numerous dart-shaped black ships in place above the islands, fairly close to the surface.As they watched, they saw green energy of some sort being blasted down to the surface.“How big are they? Kirk asked, studying the data on his chair screen.

“Various sizes, some smaller and some larger than Enterprise.There is no record of any previous encounter with similarly designed ships in our database.”

“So we don’t know their speed, manoeuvrability or weaponry.”

“No.However,” Spock said, switching the focus, “I believe that this may be the source of our relocation.”

The sensors showed a large tower swirling with some sort of green energy but the central point of interest was a tall green funnel of power going straight up in the lower atmosphere, topped by a circular swirling vortex.“And before you ask, Captain, I have no idea what it is.The sensors cannot identify it, though it is obviously some sort of energy.That vortex appears to be our egress into this place.”

“And maybe our way out?”

“Perhaps.”Spock’s eyes narrowed in thought.“However, without further information what effect an attempt to enter it would have upon the ship or ourselves, I would be hesitant to try.”

“Hmm.” Kirk’s most important concern was the safety of his ship and crew, and unless dire need warranted it, he wouldn’t ignore his Science Officer’s warnings.“Can you show me a closer look down there? “

“Yes, the world is rich in lifeforms of various types.The majority register as alien however…”Spock paused, and his voice changed to one of mild surprise.“…there appears to be a fair number of humans amongst them.”

“Humans as in Earth-type humans?”

“Indeed, or as close to it as makes no difference.”The viewscreen shifted again, increasing its refinement to the ground.

“Well, I know what’s happening there,” Kirk said, walking towards the screen.“That’s a battle.”

And, he realised, a very violent one.It was odd seeing such a vicious fight in absolute silence.Enormous alien monsters rampaged and destroyed everything in their path, while the smaller figures they were fighting seemed hopelessly outnumbered.“Can you show me a closer view?”

“Yes Captain.I’ll centre the view on the largest force of humans.”

The viewscreen blurred and then reset and he was looking down at a desperate hand-to-hand fight.The humans and their apparently alien allies were fighting with primitive weapons; swords, bows and guns, spears and knives and the occasional flash of various coloured energies.They were backing up and away from the tower with its tall green beam as waves of huge red beasts pressed them back.He didn’t know who they were but he felt a sense of kinship for those brave, desperate people and though he knew he could not, under the Federation’s Prime Directive, interfere, it was painful to watch their valiant but hopeless fight and do nothing.

“Can those ships see us?” he asked Spock, not turning away from the horrific battle so far below his ship.

“Not as far as I can tell.We are in a fairly high orbit and all of their attention seems to be on the ground forces.”

He watched one particular group at the front of the retreating force.It was led by a tall man in battered armour, who wielded his large sword with enormous skill and energy.Armoured warriors fought around him in some sort of tabarded group that spoke of protection or guard.A leader perhaps, and a superb fighter.

“Captain, there is some sort of flying vessel approach from their rear.From its vector, I would say it is there to evacuate the retreating force.”

A secondary viewer showed the ship in question and Kirk blinked in surprise.“That’s…a very odd aircraft.”It had all the design of an old Earth wooden-hulled sailing ship, except for the four huge ground-directed engines powered by spinning turbine blades.It sailed forward and dipped down toward the waiting troops, dropping scaling ladders as it came close enough to the ground.They watched as the retreating force climbed the ladders, until only the leader and his guards were left.

And just when it seemed they would escape, an enormous robotic appeared out of the dust and smoke and latched onto the ship with one huge paw.It began pulling the ship down and it was obvious it didn’t have the power to break free.

The leader had just begun to climb and he stopped, looked up at someone gesturing at him over the railing then thrust something into the waiting person’s hand and let loose his grip on the ladder.

“Oh Lord, he’s fighting that thing alone, giving his people a chance to get away.”

Kirk’s hands gripped the railing around his bridge station as he watched the lone figure fighting the enormous machine.As it turned its attention to him it released the ship, which bobbed upwards and turned away.

Kirk slapped a hand on his communicator.“Kirk to Transporter room.There is a lone human below, fighting a robotic.Can you locate him and beam him aboard?”

Spock appeared behind him, speaking softly.“Captain, the Prime…”

“Not now Spock, lecture me later.Well, Transporter Chief?”

“Sir, just a moment…”

“He doesn’t have a moment, Chief.And have security measures in place.”

“Understood.Wait…yes, got him sir…beaming him up now.”

Kirk moved to the turbolift.“You have con, Spock.Be prepared to take us out and put on shields if needed.Uhura, you’re with me.”His communications and translation officer joined him and they entered the elevator before Spock could voice another negative reminder of just how many rules he’d broken.

 

Kirk arrived at the transporter room to find two security personnel already in place.As he entered, he noted that a restraint screen had been activated, and he stopped just outside the glowing wall.

The tall figure inside was looking around, eyes wide and alert.As Kirk entered his switched his gaze to the Captain but Kirk noted there was no sign of fear in that very human face.

The man was tall, and possibly the most well-built human Kirk had ever seen.He wore battered and bloodied armour and carried two swords, one in each hand.The man licked his lips and spoke an obvious question, and Kirk noted Uhura activating her translation set.Kirk responded, even though he knew the big man wouldn’t understand him.He needed to draw out verbal responses to enable Uhura to start the translation process.

“Greetings and welcome aboard the Federation starship Enterprise.”

The man’s head flicked upwards with every sign of confusion, and he spoke again in a tone that sounded very much like an I’don’t-understand-you response.

“Captain, his language is very similar to a version of early Latin.It’s not exactly the same but it might be close enough.Can you do a “My name is” so I can provide the system with a base sample.”

Kirk obligingly put his hand on his chest.“My name is James Kirk,” and he raised the hand and looked at the man inquiringly.Now, if he was smart enough…

After a moment, it appeared he was.He put his own hand on his chest and spoke a phrase slowly in a similar cadence to Kirk’s.Uhura nodded.“Yes, I’ve adapted it based on that, though the computer will need more to refine the translation.”She activated the language buffer and nodded.

Kirk smiled.“Greetings.”

The man looked around, startled.“Greetings to you.Who…you?”

“I am James Kirk, commander of this vessel.You are?”

“Varian Wrynn.High King of the #@!).”He was obviously also getting broken translated sentences, but enough to at least partly understand.“You are not #$*^.”

“We are not what?”

Varian spoke again, slowly.“Beings from the Burning Legion.Demons.”

“We are not.Are you at war?”

“Yes.My world is.”He paused and sighed.“I thought @#&^ die today.”He reached out to tentatively touch the security screen, and drew his hand back as it fizzed.“Strong magic.”

Kirk watched him, surprised at how unafraid he was to be surrounded by so much alien and advanced technology.“Do your people have such magic?”

The King nodded.“Yes, but different.I need to return to them.”The translator had correlated and adapted its system and became more efficient with each passing moment, as with so many highly intelligent systems.“They will think me dead.”

Kirk made a decision; he got no sense of threat from this man, only concern for his people and intense curiosity.Without turning, he spoke.“Chief, drop the security screen.”

A moment later the buzzing screen vanished, though his security guards remained on alert.After a moment the King stepped down off the transporter platform and walked the few steps forward to stand before Kirk.He glanced at the watchful security officers and smiled mildly.

“You guards are careful, which is wise.You do not know me James Kirk, but I sense we are more alike than unalike.You are not from this world, are you.”

It was more a statement than a question, and Kirk felt a mild relief.These people might not be advanced, but they understood spatial science to some degree.“No, we are from another world very far away.”

“Has your world been attacked by the Burning Legion?”

“No.Though I would wish to learn more about it, as it sounds like a threat.”

The King nodded.“A threat to the Universe.Perhaps you can aid us to defend our world from it.Many die below as we speak, our entire world may be doomed.”He looked across at the transporter station.“Can your mage teleport me back to my people?”

“As in magic?Well, he isn’t a mage..exactly.But yes, we can get you home.”

The warrior’s eyes gleamed.“Excellent.”He slowly slid the two swords together; they clicked into a single large sword form .He held out his spare hand.“Welcome to Azeroth, James Kirk.Come join us in defeating the Burning Legion.”

  


	12. Khadgar/Gul'dan - A Landscape of Laments

The room is warm and comfortable.  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with books, leather-bound and well-worn, each one as familiar as a friend.  He runs his hand across the spines and they seem to talk to him as he renews an acquaintance with each one.  _This one_ is a series of tales from the War of the Ancients, _this one_ a treatise on the origins of Alchemy and its earliest mixes.  There is a fire in the fireplace, the wood glows and crackles; not too hot, just right and it gives off the right heat to warm him.  The stained glass windows allow a dim light to enter and there is the sound of rain tapping on the glass, a familiar comfort on winter days.  A cup of tea steams on his desk and a half-eaten sandwich sits on a plate next to it.  It feels…homely.

It feels… _wrong._

_Why am I here?  This looks like my study back in Stormwind.  I wasn’t in Stormwind just now, was I?  I was…somewhere else…_

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening and as he turns he freezes in combined shock and delight.

“Lothar?”

The blue eyes shine from the tanned face, the skin crinkling around them in a familiar way.  “The one and only.  Have I interrupted something important?”

“No, not at all.”  He steps forward without thinking and melts against the broad chest. Arms wrap around him.  “Oh, you feel so good.  It’s been too long.”

As he closes his eyes, he feels lips touch his forehead.  “Not that long.  I’ve been gone a few hours.”  Lothar steps back and walks to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine.  “How goes your research?”

 _Was I researching something?  I can’t remember.  What’s wrong with me?_   As he turns towards Lothar he sees his reflection in the wall mirror.  Brown hair falling over his face, round pink cheeks, a smudge of ink on his nose and… _wait…this is wrong.  Something is wrong…_

“Something is wrong.”  Saying it aloud, its sounds stupid because Lothar is here, turning to smile at him with that puzzled-about-you look he so often gets.

“What’s wrong?  Did you accidentally turn someone into a sheep again?”

 _Think, damn it, think!_   As he tries to remember, striving to know what is wrong, a headache explodes on both sides of his forehead and he clutches it, groaning.  “Hurts.  It hurts.”

Arms grab him and hold him tightly.  “Khadgar, love, what is it?”  A large hand strokes his face, his head, fingers carding through his hair.  “Do you need a healer?”

 _Yes, a healer.  That’s what I need._ “I might.  I seem to have a bad headache.  Could you ask someone to come up please?”

“Of course I can.”  Lothar takes his arm, gently leading him to the rumpled couch against the wall.  “Lie down here and rest, I’ll send one along shortly.  Try to rest.”

Khadgar lies down gratefully and pulls the blanket around himself.  He doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t feel that tired, just wants the pain gone.    _All I have to do is let go.  Just let go and the pain will be gone._

“Let go of what?”  The blanket tightens around him and the sun coming through the window has a strange luminescence, almost…green…  He blinks but it doesn’t go away, seems to actually get stronger and he struggles with the idea that if he just concentrates, it will all make sense.  The pain in his head is like something digging through his skull, a drilling sharp hurt that is almost physical.

 _No, not almost.  It IS physical.  I can feel something…_   He puts up his hand and he senses it, something living burrowing inside and the blanket holding him down isn’t a blanket at all.  It’s…..what….something else… _if I can just remember…_

 

Gul’dan watches as the demons work on Khadgar’s still body.  Looking like a beautiful, deadly crown, a series of emerald green fel shards are set around the Archmage’s skull.  Suffused with fel energy, their sharp points have pierced the fragile skin of Khadgar’s head and are slowly sliding deeper.  It is a careful insinuation – too much pressure, touching something important in the wrong way, could easily kill him.  And death isn’t Gul’dan’s plan for Khadgar.  Domination is his aim.  He must breach the Archmage’s formidable defences and that can only be done while he is unaware, distracted by the images fed to him by Gul'dan through the crystals. 

The warlock sits next to him, clumsy but cautious.  He puts on hand on the man’s chest, feeling the rapid pulse of his heart.  “Take care, Hazzarm.  His heart cannot take too much more of this.”

The slender Eredar snorts, his green eyes shining.  “Such a weak thing, it is like working with cut glass.”

“Weak, yes, but only in body.”  Gul’dan’s fingers stroke the fragile chest.  “In the important ways of power, he is anything but weak.  If you succeed, he will be my greatest General, my most useful tool.”  He let his fingers move up the chest to touch and stroke the pale, still face.  “How terrible it would be for them, to see you at my side, turned and willing.  Much more terrible than to just see you dead.”  He lifts his hand away and settles back, linking his mind once more to the dream landscape his demons have created inside that sensitive skull…

 

Some rest seemed to have helped, and when he opens his eyes it’s to the touch of a cool cloth on his forehead.  He looks up into Lothar’s watching eyes.  “Ah that feels nice.”

Lothar carefully wipes the cloth over his cheeks then slowly dips his head to place his mouth on Khadgar’s.  The kiss is unusually demanding and deep as the large hands hold his head still.  He lets his lips part and Lothar’s tongue slides inside, tasting the depths of his mouth.  It is a kind of penetration and the thought of that stirs his cock awake and he spreads his legs to a searching hand.  Fingers squeeze his growing erection and he moans, his breath swallowed by Lothar’s mouth.

“I can see you’re feeling up to it,” Lothar mutters against his damp lips.  “You’re amazingly carnal for someone so clever.”

“Hmm, carnal.  That’s a new word for you,” Khadgar whispers, eyelids lowering as his breath catches to the possessive strength of those fingers.  “How long it’s been…”

“Too long.  Do you want me inside you, my little mage?”  Somehow he’s naked and so is Lothar, stretched across him, belly to belly, chest to chest.  “Do you want me to take you, to give you pleasure, to take away your fears and give you the sort of joining you’ve never known?”  Lothar nuzzles his damp throat, licking at the rapid pulse beneath the skin.  “Shall I take you, Khadgar, make you mine?”

A voice from somewhere inside him insists that there is something not right about this but he pushes it aside.  So many times he’d abandoned his personal needs for the good of others but this time he could have the one thing he really wanted, the one person that fulfilled all his desires.

“Yes, please yes.  Oh gods it feels so good…”

And even as his body responds to Lothar’s entry and possession, as he feels his orgasm growing as if it were a fire building inside him, pushing away every other feeling, he gives over himself to that joining, to the one with and inside him and cries out his surrender in a convulsion of pleasure that wipes away thought and doubt in a singularly overwhelming fusion.

 

Gul’dan stands before Khadgar watching as the demons gown and prepare him.  The shards that still lie within his skull have formed into crystal spikes, curving out and around him in a living crown of felcrystal glowing with his power.  Green eyes watch Gul’dan with something like hunger and something like love.  The Orc understands that emotion now, knows it from the feeling he shares with his newest convert.  It’s a foolish emotion that he would once have called a weakness.  Yet its power is undeniable and it has etched its way into his mind just as the felshards have anchored themselves to Khadgar’s brain.

Khadgar is lost in a dream where Gul’dan is the personification of his only love and that dream realm feeds Gul’dan’s wishes to him.  Those who were once friends will now been seen as enemies, and enemies as friends.  He is utterly unaware of the real world except as Gul’dan wishes him to be aware.  It is erotic and, yes, carnal in its domineering power.

Clothed in fel raiment that drifts in a green mist around him, his pale skin a highlight against the dark power, Khadgar follows his master out into the world he will help destroy.


	13. Khadgar & Varimathras - A Stitching of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually had an idea to extend the previous chapter and decided to post it. Whether anything further comes of it...who knows? Not me, I'm unpredictable (:

_And when the film had stitched your eyes_  
A creature gasped "Reprieve"!  
Which anguish was the utterest -- then --  
To perish, or to live?

_Emily Dickinson_

 

The Legion’s assaults had been particularly determined and he is feeling stretched and worn.  It seems he hardly rests at all before he is called forward again to repel another attack by waves of demons and other creatures.  They are cunning things; sometimes they attack in large numbers and other times just a in small parties, or even single attacks on important targets.  His own people make their own moves but they seem mostly concerned with holding what they have, with keeping their ground.  He isn’t sure of the wisdom of that but he isn’t in command, and he has learned not to question commands from above.  Aside from it being pointless, he ends up with terrible headaches and periods of darkness with no memories other than images in the aftermath of pain.

Lothar still visits him but not as often and he seems distracted, and sometimes even angry.  He comforts his lover as much as he can – he realises that someone as important as Lothar must be under a great deal of pressure – and he uses his body, his hands and his tongue to give pleasures that before have always eased Lothar’s anger and softened him.  Yet even that has not been successful of late and Lothar leaves him still tense and stiff with curbed temper. 

And then he doesn’t come and Khadgar is left to sit in his room alone.  The walls seem to close in on him, become more of a prison than a home.  The fire dies down and gives no warmth.  The air is chill and carries strange smells.  He tries to leave, to find out what is happening but is told to wait, to stop, to rest.  And he does rest but gets no peace from it, only the black dreamlessness that waits between wakings.  It’s too much like death for his liking.

Then the door opens and the Prince…no, King now…enters.  Khadgar stands, smiling.  “Anduin, I haven’t seen you in…”

“Yes, I know Khadgar.”  The young face is serious and he stands just inside the door, his hands moving as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.  “I have some sad news for you.  Anduin Lothar has been killed.”

The words slice into him like knives to the heart and he staggers.  “What!  No…..  Not again, no…”  He isn’t sure what he’s saying, the pain of loss is so overwhelming.  But it fades, gradually, to be replaced by fury.  “Who did it?  Tell me!”

“One of the Legion’s demon lords, he was caught in a trap and slaughtered.  They tell me the demons tortured him for a long time before he died.”

There is nothing in him now but the hunger for vengeance.  “I need to kill them.  I need to kill them all.”

“Yes, you do.  Come with me, Khadgar, and we will kill them all in his name…”

 

Varimathras watches Khadgar at work with a deep and hungry satisfaction.  Gul’dan’s death had left the human without a master and Varimathras had quickly stepped in to take control of the human’s dreamscape.  He is well acquainted with the forces of Azeroth – he understands more than most how they think and feel.  He had lived among the Forsaken and seen their petty rivalries and stupidity.  He’d underestimated them and paid for it with decades floating nearly mindless in the Twisting Nether. His rebirth had been a gift of Sargeras, a final chance to prove himself.  No more failures, his Master had said, or the next extinction would be a final one.  No further failure was possible.

And he had the best tool to use to advance himself within the Legion.  The Orc warlock was dead, having failed Sargeras in the worst possible way.  Gul’dan had not taken full advantage of the mage Khadgar, of what he was capable of.  He’d not fully twisted him to the Legion’s purposes.  Powerful he had been but he had lacked foresight.  Varimathras is not so lacking.

He senses that Khadgar’s love for the dead Lothar is a deeply embedded weakness, and he has played on that, using the story of his death to twist the mage’s mind even further.  Raging with grief, the power that comes from the frail body is immense.  An intermingling of Fel and Arcane, it is unique, and his opponents have no counter for it.  Waves of it flow from Khadgar’s body, shooting out like living lightning.  He has no need of a staff or a wand or anything else to focus his power.  He is his own focus. 

Varimathras thinks that in time Khadgar will burn himself out from its use but that does not concern him.  He will have achieved his aim he watches with dark satisfaction as a flight of Demon Hunters turn to screaming ash under the power of Khadgar’s lightning strikes.  Twenty or more of them die in a single blast.

 _We will retake the Broken Shore, the two of us_ , he thinks as he lashes out with his own power at the few Demon Hunters who survived, smashing them to bloody pulp.  _We will secure the Tomb and push them off, take Deliverance Point and plunder it.  And my warlocks will learn from him and use the same method on others and turn them into useful tools._

What need is there for stimulation when power is its own reward? 

As he studies his mage he sees Khadgar’s shoulders slump and he staggers, barely holding himself upright.  Varimathras looks to one of the warlock handlers alongside him.  “When was he last fed?”

“Yesterday I believe, Lord.”

Varimathras turns towards a group of prisoners.  “Bring me two of those, two healthier ones.”

Two of the prisoners are dragged forward.  One is a Tauren Paladin, his armour gone, his body marked with blood but he stands upright and defiant.  The other is a Dwarven Hunter still wearing the scraps of her leather gear.  Varimathras reaches out to the Paladin and, without a word, sinks his claws into its chest.  Even at it screams in agony he wrenches out its heart, turning to the Dwarf as the Tauren collapses in its death throes.  The bleeding, still pulsing heart in one hand, his other lifts and pulls streams of life energy from the Dwarf, feeding it into the heart.  The withered corpse collapses onto itself at his feet as he turns.

“Khadgar…”

 

He feels as he thinks a candlewick might as it burns down to its base, an incandescent flame consuming and falling in on itself.  How much more can he take?  When will life not be worth fighting for?  _Soon, it will be soon.  Perhaps if I find the Light, I’ll find him there waiting for me.  But even if he isn’t I will be gone from this relentless destruction and death._

And he hears a familiar voice and turns towards it.  The King is standing a few feet away, a smile on his bright young face.  “I brought you some food, my friend.  You look positively withered.”  The smile grows wider as he offers the thing in his hand.  “See, it’s your favourite.”

Khadgar’s mouth waters at the sight of the Stormwind spicy sausage sitting in a fresh bread roll.  He hadn’t realised just how hungry he was till that moment.  “Thank you, your Majesty.  That smells wonderful.”

He takes the offered food and bites into it, humming as the juices fill his mouth and slide down his parched throat.  As he chews and swallows he seems to feel strength filling him and he straightens, refreshed.  As he wipes away the juices from the corners of his mouth the shadows that creep into his vision now and then appear once more, just beyond the corners of his view but they aren’t there as he turns towards them.  Clouds across the sun, perhaps, or nothing at all.


	14. Rommath/Lor'themar - Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Omega Rommath has to choose what to do about a Heat he can no longer suppress, including just who might be best to help him out.

The hand that held the vial shook slightly, and Rommath steadied himself, staring beyond it to the wall, forcing his tired mind to focus.  It was the fifth mix he’d tried, and the fifth failure.  All the hard work hard earned him was a sick feeling in his stomach and a growing desperation.  Time had definitely run out.

Rommath hurled the vial at the wall, gaining a small, childish satisfaction as it shattered.  He was an organised researcher, his workrooms were always immaculately ordered.  And he never gave in to temper.  Perhaps it was time for temper, for lashing out, for screaming in frustration. 

But no, such shows of irrationality would gain him nothing.  He collected a cloth and wiped his work desk, cleaned up the mess and walked slowly back to his rooms.  No answer to his problem had occurred, despite many hours of thought but perhaps he’d overlooked something, missed something.

He knew, logically, he hadn’t.  The answer was there before him, as irrefutable as his own fate. 

He was an Omega, something he had managed to hide from anyone for a long time.  The elixirs he had brewed had helped him get through many Heats without the need of dealing with an Alpha.  They had masked his symptoms, subdued his body to stop it transmitting the pheromones that an Alpha would sense, and allowed him to survive his body’s desperate need for intercourse.  It had been painful, sometimes dreadfully so. 

As he sat back drinking a cup of herb tea, Rommath imagined his ideal helpmate.  Zephyr, he’d called him.  Whenever he was in Heat and needed relief, he’d imagined this ideal Sin’dorei.  He was tall, slender, golden-haired, witty and intelligent, clever in the ways of sexuality, who appeared when Rommath needed him and disappeared afterwards without a word.  He’d fantasise about what Zephyr did for and with him as he worked himself to relief.  Zephyr was his helpmate, his mental partner.  But Zephyr didn’t exist and if Rommath wished to continue to exist, he knew he needed to let go of his dream Alpha.  He needed to find a real one.

And that was the problem.

There were quite a few Sin’dorei Alphas who would be more than happy to release his Heat and be his bedmate.  The thought of them touching him, their hands on his most private places, grunting and hissing and moaning as they rode him, made him feel sick.  It was the ultimate invasion of his hard-held privacy.

But necessity made him go over the list and consider who he should ask for assistance in this most private and personal of matters.

Halduron.  _No._ He’d known the Ranger General for a long time and although Halduron was physically fit, attractive and fairly intelligent – for a Ranger – he had all the personality of a stump.  No, Halduron did not feature in any fantasy image Rommath could conjure up.

Tae’thalen.  _Absolutely no._   For his stunning good looks and undoubted intelligence, the High Examiner was undoubtedly the most arrogant Sin’dorei Rommath had ever met.  And that was quite an achievement.  Even if he agreed to assist Rommath, he’d likely only do it to be able to crow about it afterwards.

Name after name filed through his mind, each one rejected for one reason or another.  He’d been down that mental road before and never managed to come any satisfactory conclusion.    As he stood to make himself another cup of herbal tea, he caught sight of a scroll delivered that morning and the seal was unbroken, since he’d not had time to read it.  It was the seal of…

Lor’themar Theron.

He froze in mid-movement.  _Are you insane?   Are you absolutely out of your mind?!_

Well, of course, he was, after a fashion.  And he certainly would be very shortly, given the stirring of Heat he sensed in his veins.  But to consider the Regent Lord as a potential mate…it was outrageous.

And for a moment, Lor’themar’s features overrode Zephyr’s in his imagination.  And the Heat stirred higher, flushing his skin with hunger.

_Thank you very much, could you have not focused on someone less totally, impossibly unobtainable?_

Yet the more he tried not to think of Lor’themar, the more he failed.  The Regent Lord fitted most of his requirements.  Intelligent, strong, powerful, elegantly reserved.  The most beautiful Sin’dorei of his acquaintance since Kael’thas, the only one deserving of access to Rommath’s body.  An Alpha certainly – as an Omega, Rommath was perfectly able to know that despite the Regent Lord’s lack of outward Alpha displays.  His discretion was perfect.  And discretion was, for Rommath, an absolute requirement.

Would he even consider it?  And if he did, would it damage the fragile relationship he and Lor’themar had managed to establish over the time since Kael’thas?  _Kael’thas…oh my Lord, how well we suited each other, so much pleasure you gave me, so much relief.  I’ve not known an Alpha since you, because none came anywhere near your quality…_

Procrastination would not serve him this time, so he set about seeing if Lor’themar could assist him.  He tidied his rooms carefully and cleaned and tidied himself equally carefully, then sat down to pen a note to the Regent Lord asking that he attend upon Rommath in his rooms.  He didn’t feel up to moving through the city in his current state, despite having used a potion to mask his Omega pheromones so that he wouldn’t announce his state to ever Alpha in sensory range.  He despatched the note, then he set a fresh pot on the heater and sat back to wait.

It was unusual for Rommath to ask the Regent Lord to visit him and Lor’themar was remarkably prompt in attending.  The tall figure hesitated at the door, head to one side in inquiry.  Rommath gestured.  “Please come in, and thank you for coming.”

“I was a little concerned, it is most unusual for you to ask me to come here.  Are you well?”

“Yes.”  He stood and began to pace to control a desire to fidget.  “I have..that is, I need – no, what I am trying to say is..”

“Rommath, stop.”  The tone was commanding and he did stop, and turn, puzzled.

Lor’themar stepped forward slowly, almost carefully.  “What is it you need?  Tell me.”

 _He knows._   Somehow, he knew, despite all of Rommath’s careful ministrations.  “You know.”

Lor’themar nodded slowly, hands tucked behind his back.  “Yes, I know.  I’ve known for quite some time, though you are a difficult person to read.  I assume you are experiencing some difficulty this time?”

Rommath snorted and began to pace again, if only to keep from shaking.  The Heat, in the Regent-Lord’s Alpha presence, was stirring like a beast, unsubdued and hungry.  “Difficulty.  That is one word for it.  I have been able to control it for a long time but lately it has become more of an issue and this time all my attempts to minimise its effects have failed.”  His hands were cold, he realised, and he rubbed them together, trying to warm them.  He froze as large hands took his, their heat penetrating his chilled fingers and he looked up, surprised at how fast Lor’themar could move, and how silently.

His voice was unsteady when he spoke at last.  “Do you find me…repellent?”

“I find you as you are - Rommath, my Grand Magister.  It’s been many years since you shed Kael’thas’s shadow, my dear friend, and you were never repellent even then.”

He relaxed in Lor’themar’s Alpha aura as if it were sunlight and felt muscles relaxing that he hadn’t realised were clenched.  And as he accepted Lor’themar’s presence, he released his hard-held controls and the Heat exploded.  He groaned as it swamped his body and mind, replacing thought with instinct. It was unexpectedly violent. 

And Lor’themar’s reaction was immediate.  He moved with all the speed of a warrior, pulling Rommath into his arms and kicking the door closed behind him with one precise shove of his foot.  Clothing was shed with haste; Rommath pulled at Lor’themar’s, desperate to feel skin and he ran his hands across the pale, scarred chest.  Reality shattered into a series of images and sensations:  his hands on Lor’themar’s scarred chest, the feel of Lor’themar’s mouth on his neck, hands removing his robes with unexpected dexterity, an arousal so intense it was almost painful.

He hadn’t even realised he was presenting until those same hands slid behind him, coming away slick with warm lubricant.  The fingers that touched him there made him shudder and whimper in a disgustingly needy way but he was too caught up in the pure relief of that touch to be embarrassed. 

The back of his knees hit the bed as he was angled backwards and he fell, splayed on the bed in a surrealist abandonment.  Yet even then, when he might have expected just to have his offering of self accepted with no further ado, Lor’themar was paced and restrained.   Even passion wasn’t something the Regent-Lord rushed into, it seemed.  He took his time, despite his very evident arousal.  He stroked all over Rommath’s body in a voyage of discovery, feeling and tasting and smelling each part of him.  He even caressed his bare feet, eliciting a choked reaction.  It seemed he was ticklish, which was a surprise.  The casual  way of it calmed Rommath, enabling him to regain some control, some dignity.  _Which, given I am sprawled naked and slick on my own bed, is something of an achievement…_

He looked up into Lor’themar’s flushed face.  There was something appealing about seeing that normally contained person caught up in the throes of sexual arousal.  He reached up and threaded his fingers into the fall of hair, took a handful of it and used it to pull Lor’themar closer.  “Would you be so kind as to fuck me, please…”

The Regent-Lord’s single eye flared bright as his lips curled up into an appreciative smirk.  “At least you said please….”  He continued to smile as he lifted Rommath’s legs into position around his waist, their thighs sliding together as Rommath’s back arched.  With an unsuspected skill, Lor’themar’s cock tapped unerringly against his entry and in one quick flick of his hips, he thrust inside.

It was difficult to think after that.  His body had craved that intimacy for so long it turned him into flesh that needed no intelligence, only subjugation.  He groaned as Lor’themar took him, driving into the depths of his slick, hot body, opening him up to the experience of possession by an Alpha, something he’d not had for a very long time.  Kael’thas had been arrogantly sure of himself and did very much what he wanted to Rommath.  Lor’themar read Rommath’s body like a campaign map of an invasion undertaken with subtle strength.  But he was surprisingly gentle for all that.  There was no pain, but a great deal of pleasure.

He sighed as the tension of Heat began to subside under Lor’themar’s ministrations.  His orgasm was almost an afterthought, but satisfying even so.  And when the Regent Lord cried out his name as he came deep inside Rommath’s body, that was satisfying too.

At peace finally, laying in the Regent Lord's arms, he looked up at him through lowered lids.  "You did very well."

Lor'themar shrugged, settling himself closer to Rommath.  "Thank you, but of course I did it only to help you in a difficult situation."

"Of course you did."

"Absolutely."

Rommath laughed, which probably surprised Lor'themar more than anything else he'd done that day.


	15. Rommath/Lor'themar - Falling Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small extra bit to my 'winged Rommath' fic.

 

Rommath had wings.  _But I am not a demon.  I am not evil.  I am not…a freak!_  

Sitting beneath a tree in a small park in Silvermoon, Rommath flexed his shoulders and the wings stirred the lower branches of the tree, dislodging leaves.  He watched them fall and the image of himself as a child came back…

 

_“Mamma, why do I have wings and the others Sin’dorei do not?”_

_His mother crouched down next to him so that their eyes were level.  “Because you are different, Rommy.”_

_Rommath shuffled his feet, his wings stirring behind, twitching with nerves.  “Do I have to be different?  The others point at me and whisper and call me freak.  I hear them.”  He tucked his hands into his belt.  “I’d rather not be different, if you don’t mind.”_

 

He’d learned then that being different was a state he couldn’t shed any more than his wings.  They’d been small when he was young, unable to bear his weight for more than a few seconds and he’d stumble and fall trying to lift and feel ridiculous at his appearance, at his failure.  Half Sylph-half Sin’dorei he didn’t share his mother’s lightweight bone structure and specialized muscles.  He needed magic to lift himself and many hours of intense work to strengthen his chest muscles to work the wings. 

 His mother had done her best to shield and teach him until her death when he was fourteen.  His father had disguised her appearance, made her look like the perfect Sin’dorei but living away from her few remaining people had been difficult and when illness took her there was no one who understood her nature, no one who could heal her.  So he’d been left alone with a silent, grieving father and a secret he was told it was essential to keep. 

But sometimes it was difficult not to fly. He would sneak out into the woods around Silvermoon and practice.  As his body matured, so did his wings and he learned that they were both material and magical things, that a power within him gave him lift but, once airborne, the wings allowed him to soar.  There was so much freedom in that flight, it was the only time he felt perfectly at peace, the only time he could laugh.  Aloft, he was another Rommath, with wings that took him above the world below.  Up there, he felt closer to his mother and less of a freak. 

But the years passed and the chances to fly diminished.  He became a mage and a powerful one, so powerful he attracted the attention of important figures in his world.  He met, and became enthralled by Kael’thas, that most perfect of Sin’dorei.  Somehow Kael’thas discovered what he was and demanded he reveal his wings, which naturally he did.  The Prince enjoyed touching them, stroking the black feathers, and he would make love to Rommath beneath the shadow of those wings. 

Since Kael’thas’ fall and death, and Rommath’s return to Silvermoon, he’d never revealed his wings again.  Until that day the Legion’s attacks had brought them into agonizing view.  Now everyone knew, and there was no need to hide them anymore.  

The touch of Lor’themar’s hand on the big pinions had reminded him of Kael’thas, though the two Sin’dorei could not be any more different.  The Prince had been arrogantly perfect, sure of his ability to charm, equally sure of his right to lead.  The Regent Lord was…something else.  Calm strength in every line of him.  Pride, certainly but then pride was part of  Sin’dorei nature, but it wasn’t arrogance.  He was a leader by choice and a warrior of skill and courage.  He was someone Rommath could respect. 

And as he sat amidst the falling leaves, he realized he would not reject the touch of that hand on his wings, if it were to light there again.


	16. Jaina Proudmoore & Garrosh Hellscream - Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG, I'm writing M/F sex fic! What is the world coming to!  
> Still, this series is supposed to be to stretch my imagination and let it run free, so then, here goes. And I've always wanted to write a Garrosh-gets-Jaina fic. But of course, being me, it has to be a bit more than just a noncon/beatup fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, its noncon and its male/female!
> 
> for some reason lately I've been getting a mass of odd symbols in the posted work where any punctuation marks occur. things like â€“ - if anyone has any ideas why this happens id love to hear from you

Garrosh Hellscream watched the woman being dragged into the room and smiled.  He tossed the half-eaten haunch of beef aside and wiped his mouth with a rag. She was pulled towards him, spitting curses and kicking at the orcs who held her and Garrosh's smile twisted into a savage grin.

"Mouthy bitch, aren't you. Tez, gag her. I'm not interested in what she has to say and it'll stop her using any of her magical tricks." He stood, loosening his belt. "Oh, and strip her."

As he undid his trousers, Nazgrim snorted. "I'd have thought you would have preferred to mate with something that was a bit more of a challenge."

"You'd have thought wrong."  Garrosh pulled out his cock and began to pump it.  "Fucking is like an invasion; when I do either, all I need is entry.  I'll take this one on her back with her legs up and that will more than satisfy me because I know how much she hates me and I know how much it will pain her. In more ways than one, because," he said, as he walked down to steps towards Jaina, "in the end, winning is all that matters. Not the challenge, not being stronger or tougher or better. Just winning."

And when he did take her on her back with her legs up, when he forced her open and mated her as she moaned and writhed beneath him, when he filled her with his seed, he knew he' do it again until he filled her belly with a half orc whelp - because that would shame her most of all - that was winning, and it was very satisfying indeed.

 

 _E_ _ight months later._

Jaina stood with her hand pressed to the wall, trying to steady herself before taking another step. The growing bulge above her hips threw out her centre of balance and any fall was painful so movement required care. She sucked in a deep breath. She muttered an oath.  She pushed herself away from the wall and moved, because she had to.

Each day was a learning experience, lessons she'd never wanted or needed.  How to control an outrageous appetite. How to plan her movements to be near a privy because the weight on her bladder made that necessary.  How to put up with Garrosh and his demands and attentions.  He took unholy pleasure in her condition, parading her before his fellow Horde leaders and friends as proof of his virility.  He enjoyed sitting with her on his lap, her short robe pulled up so he could run his hands across her swelling stomach.  She had no say in that, of course, no more than in anything else.  He ordered, she obeyed, and saying no wasn't an option.  _Well, I can say no all I like, but I may as well be speaking in an unknown language._

At least her pregnancy had stopped him from taking her.  Once the healers had confirmed her state he'd left her alone. He could get his pleasures elsewhere easily enough, had only to lift a finger for anyone else he wanted in his bed.  Jaina was a prize, she knew that, kept docile by the plain iron torc around her throat that smothered her magic.  Without her power she was helplessly weak in the midst of much physically stronger enemies.

That hadn't stopped her from trying to escape in the early days.  She'd tried quite a few methods; disguising herself and trying to slip out with groups, bribery, hiding in barrels or wagons or sacks, running while causing distraction -none had worked.  She was guarded and watched constantly by Horde members who knew what their punishment would be if she managed to get away.  It made them careful and as much as she would have liked it to be otherwise, she knew not all of them were stupid.  So she'd always been hauled back and carefully and painfully beaten for the attempt.

And naturally, as the pregnancy progressed, even those mad ideas became impossible.  She carried Garrosh's son - the healers had confirmed that - and it would be a big child, even being half-human. She wasn't even sure she'd survive the birth, though the healers assured her she would. "We'll be makin' certain of that," the Troll druid had said when she'd voiced her concern. "da Warchief ordered us to take care of ya an'  the child.  Can't say it won't hurt, cause it will but we'll be makin' sure you both live."

So that was another thing to look forward to:  an agonising birth process.

She'd just managed to make it to the privy and attend to her infuriating bladder when the first pain hit.  It was like an enormous clenching, a spasm that ripped through her middle and made her double over. She cried out in shocked anguish and staggered outside the privy, clutching the doorframe to keep upright. 

Her cry brought guards into the room.  "What's wrong!?"

"I think...." The pain sizzled through her again and she bent over, shaking. "I think it's coming."

That got an immediate reaction.  One of the orcs stayed with her, keeping her upright while the other shot down the stairs calling for a healer.  It felt like hours as Jaina stood there, shivering, waiting for the next shock, before he returned with the Troll druid in tow.  The two orcs lifted her up carefully and took her through to the bedroom, laying her on her back and stepping away as the druid took their place.

He laid a large hand on her belly and closed his eyes.  "Hmmm"  He continued to mutter and hiss as his hands explored the bulging, twitching expanse and she eventually lost patience.

"Well!  Is it coming or not?"

"Shush, have patience, I'm trying to hear his heart." He stood with his head bent for a few more seconds, then nodded, satisfied.  "Good, beatin' strong. You be goin' into labour earlier than normal for a human but with it bein' half orc, it's not unexpected.  Try and relax between the contractions, we'll get things organised."

Relaxing wasn't something she could manage over the next few hours.  Her water broke half an hour later and the contractions continued, growing closer together as her body began its process of ejecting the baby into the world.  Naked, covered with sweat, shaking and agonised despite all the healers could do, she suffered through the hours because there was no alternative.  She was barely aware of them telling her to push but all the thought that managed to surface above the miasma of pain and fear was: _If I_ _push and get it out I can sleep. If I sleep erhaps it will all be a dream and I'll wake up and Kalec will be alive and the world will be just fine..._

She was tired, very tired and awareness faded in and out in shadowy waves.  More than anything, she wanted that sleep with its dreams of another world.

But a voice kept her from sleeping, a loud demanding voice and a hand slapping her face and ordering her to behave, to obey, to live.  _Am I dying? Well, that might be a solution._ But the damned voice wouldn't let her sleep and she remembered it was Garrosh and anger flushed through her body as he hit her again and she snarled and spat at him.

"That's my bitch, stay alive and fight me.  Now, open your eyes and look at your son."

She did, finally, as she felt a weight settle on her poor, battered stomach.  The first thing she saw was it's head - a pale fuzz of hair on warm reddish-brown skin, and blue eyes staring back at her as his face was settled against her breast.  He latched onto her nipple with determination and began to suckle, and Garrosh grunted, amused.

"He takes what he wants, I see.  I might learn to like him even if he is ugly."  The Warchief bent forward and licked Jaina's forehead.  "Well done, you survived me and you survived him.  Now live, just to spite me."

It seemed a good enough reason to do that, along with curiosity.  What would he be, this small half breed with her eyes and his father's blood?  As she held him to her breast and watched him finally fall asleep with a full belly, she thought it might be interesting to find out.

 


	17. Anduin Wrynn - Shield Bearer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired, naturally enough, by the brilliant cinematic for Battle for Azeroth.

Anduin couldn’t remember ever being so tired before.

Everyone bone, every muscle, ached.  The armour his squires stripped from him was relatively light, designed for a paladin, magically supportive so as not to hinder movement, yet strong and protective.

 _Rather like what a paladin should be_ , he thought as he wearily pulled off the gauntlets and let them drop to the floor with a dull thud.  _Though I'm not sure wearing the armour of one makes me one._

He'd not made any oaths, not sworn himself to the Light or spent the night kneeling in the Cathedral preying for guidance as new paladins did.   He'd just equipped his father's sword and the armour had been made for him as he'd ordered.  As the King had ordered, so would it be.

Once stripped down to the gambeson and light wool pants, he dismissed the squires, all of the servants in fact, and sat before the fire with a mug of ale, and stared into the flames.  The slow crackle, the snap of wood burning..

… _the smell of the remains of the fire that had torn through Teldrassil, the stink of burned flesh, the screams of birds who flew too close and fell like living comets…_

He shuddered and pulled away from the image and caught sight of his sword … No.  Not his sword.

_It isn’t mine.  Shalamayne is his sword.  It will always be his sword._

It was heavy, that sword, a warrior's blade made to cut through flesh and bone, wood and steel and he didn't wield it very well.  He remembered the troll with the shield, how he'd hacked at it again and again.  In his father's grip that shield would have shattered at the first blow.  He'd finally called on the Light in his anger and frustration.  It was the kind of feeling he'd had as a child when his father had tried to train him to be a warrior.  Frustration, misery, anger, how many times he'd cried those frustrated tears of failure. _He never understood then why I was so different to him.  Not the son he expected, really._ Anduin knew that Varian had loved him even so, but there had always been that shadow of disappointment that a warrior king would not be succeeded by another warrior king.  Anduin knew that, too.

He knew he would never be a great fighting paladin like Tirion.  He simply wasn’t built that way.  But perhaps there was another way to fight.  As the flames in the fireplace cracked and hissed, Anduin accepted certain things, and saw the Light within the flames.  He'd make Shalamayne his sword, but it would be the sword of the Light Bearer, a Paladin who healed and protected and served his people as their shield and defender.

_The Light will show me the way…_

He sat there, with Shalamayne's bare, flickering blade across his lap, as the fire died and the sun rose to fill the room with sunshine.


	18. Illidan Stormrage/Khadgar - An Unusual Propostion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one made me laugh at my own writing, what can I say. Illidan has a proposition for Khadgar that almost makes him shut up...

Illidan studied the human, eyes narrowed in thought.

It was difficult to tell if he was physically appealing, since he was human.  However, he was appealing in other ways.  Power had always drawn Illidan, it was the one constant in his universe.  And Khadgar practically glowed with his power.  Even a blind Kaldorei could recognise it.  Magic had always been a fascination for him; the learning of it, the use of it.  And the human Archmage used his magic with a simple ease that was …almost…daunting.

Not that many things could be said to daunt Illidan Stormrage.  He would happily face Sargeras if he was certain of a chance to get in a fatal blow.  He was intrigued to note that Khadgar's easy strength aroused him, far more than mere physical attraction.  After studying the man as he stood directing activities on the Broken Shore, he finally made a decision, and approached the mage in a quiet moment.

"Khadgar, a word."

The mage looked up, curious.  "Certainly, Illidan, what can I do for you?"

"To the point.  I approve.  I want to have sex with you."

Other than his power, Illidan had noted that Khadgar talked a great deal.  His terrible jokes were almost as legendary as his staff.  So he was secretly pleased to see that he'd managed to utterly silence the man.  Khadgar's throat bump moved up and down as he swallowed, and his blue eyes grew wide, then rapidly blinked.  After a few moments where he seemed to struggle to gain his breath, he finally spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"Umm.  Ah.  What did you say?"

"Are your ears defective?"  His tone dripped sarcasm, but then it usually did when faced with human frailties.  "I said, I want to have…"

"Yes, yes," Khadgar cut in rudely, waving a hand, his face turning an odd shade of red.  "I did actually hear what you said, please don’t say it again."

"Then why did you ask me what I said, if you didn’t wish me to say it again?  Humans are so stupid."

Khadgar shook his head, sucked in a deep breath and leant closer, and spoke in a soft voice.  "Why would you ask that?"

"Again with the foolish questions.  Is it not an obvious question?  Was I too obtuse?"  He noted the flush was actually darkening and wondered if humans self-combusted from overheating.  "If you find me physically and sexually unattractive then you need not bother responding further."

"You are," Khadgar said in an odd tone, "the most exasperating, annoying, arrogant, self-opinionated and aggravating creature I have ever met.  And I have met quite a few."

Illidan shrugged, his wings stirring the dry air.  "This I know.  It does not answer the point."

"Of course I want to have sex with you, idiot.  Did you think the gifts I gave you were some form of idolatry?"  Khadgar sighed and tucked his hands into his belt.  "You are the one being obtuse."

Illidan's eyes narrowed at the insult.  "Do not challenge me, man.  How was I to know you had ulterior motives in giving me those coins?  I thought you were just being…mawkish."

"Mawkish?  What kind of word is that?  Is it even a word?"

"It is.  You enjoy research, look it up sometime."

Their voices were increasing in volume, to the point where a number of nearby Demon Hunters were drawing close and glaring at Khadgar.  Illidan waved them away.

"He is not threatening me, just being a fool."  Illidan returned his attention to Khadgar, who had drawn very close.  "So…yes, no, which is it?"

"Of course yes."

"Good.  I will visit you tonight in Dalaran.  And Khadgar…"  He smirked as he turned.  "Ensure you are…prepared…"


	19. Eitrigg - Salute to the Honoured Dead

It had taken a fair bit of persuasion, of repeated requests and having to tell his story over and over, but finally Eitrigg was permitted entry to the Sanctum of Light.

One of the senior Paladins escorted him down the stairs beneath Light's Hope Chapel.  One would hardly know it was there except for the comings and goings of Paladins of all races and if they found the sight of an old Orc warrior entering their Hall to be unusual, they said nothing.  He obviously had permission; no non-Paladin would be able to get past the door guardians without it.

Despite being underground, it was a remarkably light and airy place.  Perhaps that was due to the Light's blessing, which Eitrigg sensed in some peculiar way that he never tried to analyse.  The statues of famous Paladins lined the walls and light from some outside source shone down on the stone, warming it.  Sound was somehow muted, like a cathedral – for that was what it was, in a way.  Those who fought for the Light came here to sit in contemplation, to rest from their battles, to plan new moves against the Legion, to fight together no matter what race they were.  It was perhaps the one real place where being Horde or Alliance didn’t matter at all.  They were Paladins here, and that was all that mattered to the Light.

His escort led him down a long aisle between rows of benches.  He saw a raised dais ahead and the light shone there even brighter than anywhere else in the great hall.  Eitrigg was left alone to stand before the tomb of Tirion Fordring.

He knelt slowly, knees clicking and cracking.  "Ah old friend," he whispered, putting one hand on the stone for support, "I'm not as spry as I was when we first met.  Such a fight we had, you and I.  I was younger then, and foolish.  All pride and passion, not a lot of sense." 

Eitrigg reached out and touched the stone box that held the remains of his oldest friend.  "It isn't right, you being dead before me.  The fates haven’t been kind to leave me to mourn.  And I never got the chance to say farewell when your ears could hear it.  This will have to do."  His eyes began to water and he wiped them with the back on his other hand.  "See what you've done, you've made me weak.  Orcs don't cry.  Stupid, they obviously do, they just don't admit to it."

He sucked in a breath as the deep pain in his chest made his heart thud.  He sat on the step with his back to the tomb.  "I'll just sit here and rest with you awhile, if you've a mind for company.  Do you remember the day when we met?  It was summer I think, and so hot, but I didn’t mind the sun's warmth…"

An hour later a Paladin reported to Maxwell Tyrosus that the Orc had seemed to fall asleep but when a paladin went to wake him, they found he'd passed away.  He'd been sitting with his back to the Tomb, his head turned and his face resting against the stone.

Maxwell looked down at the old Orc in wonder.  Tirion had told him of their history and he'd been as surprised as anyone at the tale.  It seemed the respect had been mutual.  He knelt down and rested a hand on the silver hair of Eitrigg's head.

"Sleep well, old one."  He stood and placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head in a brief, solemn salute.  "May the Light guide you to him and give you rest in his company."

 


	20. Varian Wrynn & Garrosh Hellscream:  Parallels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes universes interact and everyone has fun along the way.

Varian Wrynn studied the strangely detailed message that had been delivered to him in his mail that morning. He looked at it from all angles but it seemed to be written in a very odd tongue.  Rather like Common, but not quite.  Perplexed, he showed it to Mathias Shaw, who had experience with such matters, thinking it might be code.

The older man adjusted his glasses and read it slowly.  "Well, sire, it seems to be from someone called happywowgirl and mentions something called ..Tumblr.  It’s not making any sense to me.“  His eyes narrowed.  "This isn’t some sort of code message from Garrosh is it? ”

Varian attempted to look innocent.  "I have no idea what you are talking about, Shaw.“

His head spy grunted and handed the sheet back to his king.  "Of course not, Sire.”

And many miles away, the Warchief of the Horde was equally confused.  "What in the name of all the hairy gods is this thing?  It seems to be telling me to go somewhere called Tumblr. Is that some Alliance attempt at a trap?“

Saurfang shrugged. "Doubt it.  Not enough obvious hooks in it.  Unless the High King is trying to tell you something. Don’t have a secret code of some sort between you two, do you?  One you’ve forgotten about?”  Garrosh spat out the mouthful of beer he’d just swallowed and began coughing, and Varrok helpfully smacked him on the back until he was able to breathe again. Garrosh glared at him through wet, narrowed eyes.

“Varrok, one day…you will go too far…”

“No problem, you’ve already gone there, I’ll just follow you.”

So they never did figure out just who this happywowgirl was or what a tumblr was and its probably better that they didn’t, all in all.  Revenge, after all, is a dish best served hot across parallel universes…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated, really, to all those who post stories and ficlets and snippets and artwork to Tumblr - including me, because that strange person in the story really exists...in another universe....


	21. Original character/Lich King:  Lost Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was levelling a Blood Elf Paladin through Zul'Drak and at one point did a quest where my character found a necklace that had been put out to capture him and turn him into a Scourge creature. Naturally I thought...what if he had actually kept it and put it on.

He should have known.  Really, it was bound to happen.  His love of sparkly bling was bound to get him into trouble.  How could he have known it would be quite so much trouble.

Lar'en had considered it an honour to fight against the Scourge and the Lich King and he'd rarely believed he would die.  His skill as a Paladin of the Light was recognised by even the leaders of his Order as special.  Lar'en had a deft touch with the sword, was superbly agile and yet strong and he had rarely met an enemy he couldn't defeat.  The Light had always protected him and his skills had saved many.  Nothing had beaten him, until the day he found he was, indeed, his worst, unbeatable enemy.

He had ventured in Zul'drak and was helping his fellow paladins at the Argent Stand despatch Scourge creatures.  The area was heavily infested and the Stand was in danger of being overrun.  During a fight with a pack of such creatures, one of them had dropped a piece of jewellery at his feet as it collapsed.  When he was able to look closer, he saw it was a beautifully made choker necklace made of some dark stone studded with red gems.  It was lovely and he couldn’t resist trying it on.

Which was the last thing he did as a living Sin'dorei.

Within moments the power of the Scourge flowed into him, destroying his living body and turning him into a Scourge creature.  His mind screamed in agony and loss and he fell, as life slid from him, taking away his link to the Light, scouring away his living essence and warmth.

How long he lay there, huddled and weeping for a loss he could barely comprehend, he didn’t know.  After a time that was no time to his shattered mind, he felt himself gripped and dragged, heard gobbling voices speaking a tongue that he seemed to understand though the words made little sense.  He passed through some sort of portal, was dragged further and let drop to a stone floor at last.

"So, my little trap succeeded.  My Master will be pleased to know I have succeeded in taking you, Lar'en.  You will make him an excellent servant and will act as a warning to all those who oppose the Lich King…"

Even that knowledge couldn't stir an ounce of horror in Lar'en's mind.  Not when the greater horror of his existence was so overwhelming.

Sensation flickered through him like a broken tune.  The lack of coherence made it difficult to feel anything more than fear.  And hunger.  There was that hunger that seemed to be a huge void inside him.  At some stage he was placed before something that his shattered senses told him was meat and he drove his face into it, slashing at it with his sharp, shattered teeth, pulling hunks of it apart and showing it in his mouth.  It was warm and bloody and a tiny part of him said he should be disgusted.  That tiny part of him recognised it as human, a dead human that was already partly eaten.  Other creatures were hunched down and feeding from the body as he was.  All that concerned him was making sure he got his full share.

He lapped up the spilled blood and sat back on his haunches, the hunger satisfied for at least that moment.  There seemed to be nothing for him to do but wait.  Something told him he'd be told what to do by those who commanded him.  Beyond that, there was nothing to think about.  Existence was a grey and stinking gloom that had no purpose beyond that which he was given.

A time that was no time later he was ordered to follow and he did, shuffling through a brightness that some vague memory supplied as:  portal.  The place where he arrived at then was cold but that didn't bother him.  Cold or hot, hard or soft, such sensory input didn’t matter at all.  But when a hand rested beneath his chin and lifted his head up, that sensation meant something.  It meant…Master.

He focused on the face above him, the bright blue/white eyes in the pale, gaunt face, surrounded by a wash of snow white hair.  It was a beautiful face, a wondrous face and he grovelled and muttered before the power of its beauty, of its sublime authority.  The hand stroked him, patted his head, slid fingers through the filthy tatters of his hair.

"Ah Lar'en.  I am pleased to have you serve me at last.  But not, perhaps, in this form.  I need your strength as well as your loyalty and obedience."  The hand curled around his head in a misty flow of power.  "I will remake you into something closer to what you were.  And that hunger you feel will be changed to other appetites that will serve me just as well."

He squealed then as his body writhed and changed, as bones snapped and shattered and flesh twisted, bleeding black, stinking blood onto the pristine white floor.  He howled and shuddered but didn’t fight the power that broke him apart and reformed him.  His mind, his thoughts, clarified and the pain was even more exquisite and he hissed and bit his new lips red.  And when he lay, naked and filthy on the icy floor at his Master's feet, he was no more alive than he had been as a ghoulish thing, but reformed like a broken sword to his Master's hand.

 


End file.
